


Life comes to Rhye Hall

by Titlark



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Magic, gothic romance from Victorian times, norfolk, year 1900
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-08-13 02:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 66,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20166817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titlark/pseuds/Titlark
Summary: It's a cold summer, year 1900 A.D., the very end of the reign of Queen Victoria. Poor young man accepts an offer to work at the Rhye Hall, a lonely estate in North Norfolk. He's decided to leave terrible events of his past behind, and all the skeletons locked in their closets. However, his employers, especially the charming and mysterious Roger Taylor, might make him question everything he ever thought he knew about world.Because where the dead live... the living die for them. And at the end, only one question remains - what would you be willing to sacrifice for love?





	1. The Taylors’ Fortune

The summer of 1900 was a cold one, almost if nature decided to hurry up and skip warm and sunny August to get to dampness and grey drizzle of a late September. No one enjoyed such weather, rich or poor, young or old, men or women, perhaps except for owners of businesses selling coal or firewood. They were overjoyed about this unexpected extra income, coming from those who could afford it. 

Young man currently travelling by train across East England was neither a businessman, nor could he afford to keep a fire lit during summer months, so his slender physique kept shivering with cold driven deeply into his bones. 

Something over twenty, pale aristocratic profile, hazel eyes shining with wit and intelligence, all framed by a mane of wild dark curls, currently tied back in a tail. This old-fashioned haircut was in a rare agreement with the young man’s clothes, which once perhaps were both expensive and fashionable, but those times very clearly passed at least a decade ago. The black colour of his suit lost its sharpness, hems frayed, and the frock coat clearly used to belong to someone sturdier than the poor youth. That wasn’t very difficult, as he basically consisted of skin and bones only. He also wore gloves, and was very mindful of the detail, to cover up the fact his sleeves were good two inches shorter than the tailor had meant them to, exposing young man’s delicate wrists. Despite the overall shabbiness of the outfit, everything was meticulously clean and mended. 

Battered leather suitcase wore initials B.H.M.

What is this going to be like, he thought – and it wasn’t the first time a thought like this crossed his mind. The agency wasn’t exactly clear on the subject, he was simply told a certain Roger Taylor read his file and required him for a position of a carer for his grandfather. That surprised him, he had to admit, as he had no experiences whatsoever in that area. Since the university he worked as a private tutor for various families, and he never lasted long... with how rumours spread... it was getting harder and harder to find any job where he could earn for at least a decent bite. 

Scandal. He made a scandal, he was a scandal... and that’s something people never forgive.

Now it drove him out of London to some faraway corner of a north Norfolk to look after somebody’s rich grandfather. Remote place – which is a good thing. If there was one spot in the whole England where they haven’t heard of him, it would be there. And he wasn’t one to fear a little challenge. Since he got the job offer, he spent hours in a library, trying to learn everything about nursing, and refreshing his modern history knowledge. If the old man would start talking about past, he wanted to be ready to indulge him. Because when you’re offered a job that comes with a room, food and thirty pounds a year, honestly... in his current situation he’d learn to juggle if the mysterious Roger Taylor or his grandfather had asked him to. 

He quickly grabbed his suitcase, as the train slowly began to brake. 

“Blakeney train station!” the employee of the railways screamed over the deafening squeaking of train brakes. “Blakeney train station! You’ve arrived to the Blakeney train station!”

Young man stepped out on the platform of that little country train station (he was the only one) and heavy rain hit him right away, together with an unexpected wind making him stumble a little. His only umbrella broke last week, so the only way how to protect himself against the elements was to draw the woolly frock coat closer to his body and rush to hide under a narrow roof of the station. 

Suddenly he noticed a tall man with a gaunt face and a prominent nose rushing towards him, dressed in mackintosh and holding a huge black umbrella.

“Brian May?” the man asked while offering him a half of the umbrella, which was greatly appreciated. 

“Yes, that would be me, I’m supposed to come to Rhye Hall, as-”

The man nodded. “I know, I know. I’m Peter Hince, chief butler of Rhye Hall. Young master Taylor ordered me to pick you up. My pleasure.”

Brian smiled and shook butler’s offered hand. “Pleasure to meet you too, sir.”  
He honestly didn’t expect such friendly welcome. In London he got used to being treated like a servant on the way into a house and as a piece of dirt on the way out.

A simple but solid carriage already waited for them in front of the train station. The butler made sure Brian was comfortable inside before he drew the mackintosh closer to his body, jumped on the coach box and grabbed the reins. They set off.

It had been a long time since Brian had such a spacious carriage and all for himself. It was one of the country types, with big wheels able to handle all the potholes and stones there can be. And, God, was it necessary. Brian clenched his teeth every time the carriage jumped and after few minutes of the ride he started to cover his head just preventively, because if he hit the roof one more time, he’d be honestly concerned for the integrity of his skull. From the outside he heard only the rain, hitting the coach heavily, splashing of the mud under their wheels, muffled rumbling of the hooves and Hince’s occasional commands for the horses to go faster. Eventually, he got used to it.

In an hour, the rain changed into a soft, annoying drizzle. 

Brian opened a window and looked up to Hince on the coach box. He could smell a sea in the air, they had to be quite close to the coast now.

“How much longer?” he shouted so the butler would hear him.

“Not long!” Hince replied. “We just entered the estate. You can see the oilseed rape and sugar beet fields – around 20,000 acres. Those forests in the back belong to the Taylors as well, all the way to the marshland. Young master Taylor very much likes hunting and shooting ducks.” 

Brian couldn’t really fall in with young master Taylor’s activities, but as his job was to take care of his grandfather, not him, he wasn’t overly concerned that a participation could be required.

“What are they even like?” Brian asked. “The Taylors? How many of them are there?”

“Just the two, the old master and the young one, his grandson,” Hince surprised him. “The rest of the family is dead or not in contact with Rhye. But those two are almost fanatically devoted to one another.”

Well, that’s interesting, Brian thought. The way the butler had spoken astonished him. He had his experiences with people and knew that men like Hince are more likely to understate than to use big words. And yet – “fanatically devoted”. So what, at least a pleasant change from all those young heirs he met in his previous families, where all the interest in older relatives seemed to be limited around their testament. 

“Everything about the estate is handled by the young master only,” Hince continued, “even though every inch of the land and every brick belongs to the old man. But of course, if you forgive the impertinence, young Mr. Taylor won’t have to wait too long to inherit everything. His grandfather is a very ill man.”

So maybe money, the everlasting source of devotion among relatives, play some part here as well. Brian was a sceptic when it came to love – or at least he made his best attempts to be one, after what life had taught him. 

“Not that I wish him anything bad,” Hince said quickly, “God forbid, but you know, the time, the merciless time, no one can run away from it. Aaaand, there’s the Rhye Hall, your new home.”

Brian leaned out of the window a bit more. The last trees of the well-kept forest park parted, suddenly as if appearing out of nowhere, Brian saw an impressive, large building, spreading left and right, wide and massive from grey granite blocks, all solid in typical English baroque style. In relation to other country houses it wasn’t perhaps the biggest one, but to Brian, who got used to London’s lack of space, it seemed just breathtakingly massive. 

Hince stopped the carriage in the middle of a spacious courtyard, and immediately gestured to a boy who already waited for them.

“Park the carriage, get horses to the stables and attend to them,” he ordered sharply, and waited for Brian to get out and get his suitcase.

The stable boy jumped on the coach box while Brian and Hince hurried in the house to escape the omnipresent drizzle.

Their steps echoed through the large entrance hall, and the main door shut behind them with a loud bang. A wailing wind howled around them and Brian suddenly shivered. Oppressive cold feeling of dread and death embraced him, so intense he had to stop in his steps. He felt like a wild beast of prey, feeling a trap seconds before it gets him, but too late to do anything about it. Too late. This place. Something about the place. Something bad... something wrong... Run! You have to run!

“Are you alright, Mr. May?” Hince frowned. “You got all pale.” 

Brian tried to calm down, breathing heavily. “It’s nothing,” he replied immediately, staring at the floor. Shiny black floor tiles stared back at him. Stupid, Brian reprimanded himself, calm down, you stupid. 

He looked around again, trying to see what on Earth could make him feel like this. Nothing, perhaps except for the hall being a bit gloomy. The walls were faced with dark oak wood and spaces between several door got decorated with portraits and hunting trophies in regular intervals. It seemed to Brian one of portraits, just by his left side, had to be missing.

Before he could give it a closer thought, sudden shuffle behind his back startled him, he turned around sharply – to face a young woman in a grey, simple dress and a decorative cap. 

“Mr. May,” Hince quickly intervened, “this is Deborah, our maid. She takes care of the house and helps Mrs. Mack in the kitchen. Debbie, this is Mr. May, the new carer.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Brian assured her.

She only nodded and then turned to Hince. “The old master is sleeping and the young one isn’t back yet,” she announced. “But I prepared a fire in the library, and some tea.”

Hince nodded and turned to Brian. “You’ll wait there then until you can be introduced to Mr. Taylor. Deborah will take your luggage upstairs.”

“Please, let me-” Brian blurted out when the maid picked up his suitcase and headed up a massive wooden staircase at the end of the entrance hall.

In the meantime, the butler opened one of the doors in the ground floor and beckoned Brian to come in.

“I hope you don’t mind I won’t wait with you,” Hince excused himself, “other matters of our household require my attention.”  
And before Brian could even nod, he was alone, the door shut behind him.

He kind of minded, to be honest, to be alone in this house. The silent feeling of ominousness kept hanging in the air, combined with the wail of the howling wind from the corridor and tapping of drizzle on the windows. Nevertheless, Brian pushed it aside, and looked around curiously.

He'd always loved libraries, and he couldn’t but notice this one was very well stocked. Also, the furniture seemed new and modern, as well as the books.  
Brian’s steps didn’t make almost any noise thanks to the thick green carpet. The walls covered by a decorative wallpaper with Chinese motives almost couldn’t be seen behind heavy shelfs filled with books of various age and thickness. Some of them were also spread over a large piano sitting in the corner. And also all over the writing desk, which was placed conveniently so the light from the tall windows enabled the user to see whatever he or she chose to write. Brian noticed a thick stock of letters, delivered and yet unopened, and a half-written one, just laying on the desk for everyone to see. Someone wrote: “My dearest Sebastian, I am truly so sorry to hear about your situation. If I could do-”

Brian straightened up sharply and made several steps back, realizing he wouldn’t give a good account of himself, if the master of the house now entered and saw him spying on private letters to some Sebastian Melmoth, Hôtel d'Alsace, Rue des Beaux-Arts, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Paris. He rather focused his attention on a much smaller card table close to the fireplace, next to two comfortable-looking plump armchairs.  
Someone, probably Deborah, set the table with a Chine tea service and a tray full of sandwiches. A thin strand of steam suggested tea in the pot was properly fresh and hot. Brian was dying with hunger, but he didn’t dare to touch anything without an invitation to do so. Instead he stood next to the fireplace, letting a lovely warmth touch him through all the layers of wet fabric. Were he a cat, he’d purr at the sensation.

Minutes kept creeping on, and the mysterious master Taylor still nowhere. Not even Hince or Deborah checked on him. After feeling sufficiently dry, Brian turned his attention to the bookshelves. He knew many rich people owning large quantities of books to invest money, fill an empty space or to impress visitors. But all these books seemed used and dust-less, and many shelves contained lots of works from contemporary authors. Brian walked around the room, and ran his slender fingers over the titles. The Happy Prince and Other Stories, A House of Pomegranates, The Picture of Dorian Gray and A Woman of No Importance written by Oscar Wilde, A Study in Scarlet, The Great Shadow, The Parasite and many more from Arthur Conan Doyle, including a large stock of The Strand Magazine. Then there was Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde and Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, Allan Kardec, Charles Dickens... the list went on and on... Brian mindlessly picked a book and started reading. 

Suddenly the door flung open, so fiercely Brian dropped the book startled. He wanted to pick it up immediately, he really wanted to, but never got to it. Instead, he could nothing but stare at the man who just entered.

“Oh, finally some warmth,” the newcomer exclaimed happily and hurried towards the fireplace, not noticing Brian at all, “you’re a godsend, Mr. Hince!” he added even louder to be heard through the wall and stretched out his hands towards the flames. 

All the wheels in Brian’s head were turning rapidly and awkwardly. What should he do? Clear his throat, perhaps, to get noticed? Wouldn’t that be impolite? 

Luckily, the man, most probably Mr. Taylor, solved the issue for him by turning around.

Oh. Oh no. Brian felt a bit dizzy, like all the blood just disappeared from his body, and rushed back into his head in the next second, only too harshly – because what he had in front of him was most possibly the most handsome man he’d ever seen. A dazzling blue-eyed angel, his gentle face framed by fair, golden hair, rosy lips parted in surprise. The beauty was dressed in perfectly fitting riding clothes, currently soaked wet, almost dripping.

Brian blinked several times, angry at himself for letting his tendencies take the best of him. Again. Control yourself, Brian, breathe! What on Earth is wrong with you? Do you want to be fired before even properly working here? 

He gave his last money for the train ticket and new, though hand-me-down, clothes. He couldn’t go back!  
These thoughts ran through his head, and he kept gawking. Equally intense bright blue eyes returned the silent stare.

Finally, the angel broke the silence, looking up curiously: “So... you are Mr. Brian May? I’m Roger Taylor.”

He spoke with a soft accent typical for East England, so it sounded more like “mistah Brian May” and “Rogah Taylah”.

Brian felt himself going bright red, as the raspy voice targeted his private areas quite directly. And then Roger smiled – and Brian was pretty much a goner.  
Some of his braincells, the last ones standing and fighting the sweet fog in his mind, made him realize the book he had dropped was still on the ground.  
He picked it up immediately, breaking the spell.

Roger Taylor giggled: 

“When I am grown to man's estate  
I shall be very proud and great,  
And tell the other girls and boys  
Not to meddle with my toys.”

Yes, it was possible for Brian to go even redder. “I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. Taylor, I just... opened it,” he mumbled, quickly putting the object back where he took it, “I’ll never do it again in the future, I promise.”

Roger raised an eyebrow and approached him. “Well, wouldn’t that be a mistake,” he smiled, speaking so softly it gave Brian goosebumps, “you may find books in the future quite hard to read, if you really insist on never opening them.”

It took several seconds for Brian to realize the joke. He wanted to laugh, but a squeaky wheeze came out of his mouth instead, so tense he was.

Roger paid it no mind, looking at the book Brian had dropped. “The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes,” he read aloud, still smiling, “fancy yourself a detective, Mr. May?”

What should he answer? For Heaven’s sake, what should he answer?  
“I suppose I can see... some appeal in it, Mr. Taylor.”

“You might find a mystery or two to solve right here,” Roger continued while searching through the shelves himself, looking for something, “thought I doubt a logical mind of the Great Detective would be much of a use for you. Oh, here!” He pulled out a thin volume and opened it randomly. “It’s Stevenson – some poetry for children, Penny Whistles. There’s something about them I love. Have you read them?”

“I didn’t, Mr. Taylor.” Brian resisted the urge to participate more in the literary debate, minding his subordinate place.

Roger expected the negative answer and shuffled through the leaves. “The one I recited before also came from here. Maybe this one...” he cleared his throat and started:

“In winter I get up at night  
And dress by yellow candle-light.  
In summer quite the other way,  
I have to go to bed by day.  
I have to go to bed and see  
The birds still hopping on the tree,  
Or hear the grown-up people's feet  
Still going past me in the street.  
And does it not seem hard to you,  
When all the sky is clear and blue,  
And I should like so much to play,  
To have to go to bed by day?”

Brian could listen to that voice forever, completely mesmerized. Roger seemed amused and turned several pages. “What about this one?”  
Was there a teasing hint in his voice? He looked right in Brian’s eyes, and not even needing the book, he whispered:

“When I was down beside the sea  
A wooden spade they gave to me  
To dig the sandy shore.  
My holes were empty like a cup.  
In every hole the sea came up,  
Till it could come no more.”

“Mr. Taylor...,” Brian peeped, red as a lobster. Surely he was overthinking this. It’s only his perverted mind playing.

Roger leaned to him closer. “Are you hungry?” he whispered sensually.

Brian’s breath hitched. “What? Eh... I’m sorry, excuse me?”

“You have a long journey behind you, Mr. May,” the blond man repeated, carefully pronouncing simple words as if talking to a child, effectively breaking the spell, “are you hungry?”

“No, please, you don’t-“ Brian started, but was interrupted by a loud grumble of his stomach. His face heated up in embarrassment once again.

Roger chuckled. “Well, Mr. May... you might not be hungry, but perhaps you’d join me for tea?” He gestured to the tempting tray waiting next to the fireplace. “I insist.”

Brian nodded in defeat. “As you wish, Mr. Taylor.”

He still seemed hesitant though, and Roger wasn’t a man of great patience, so he simply grabbed Brian’s elbow and almost dragged him to the comfortable chair by the fireplace.

“Sit down,” he ordered gently. “How do you like your tea? Cream? Sugar?”

“Just...,” Brian stuttered, “just leave it like it is, please.”

Roger let out a very un-gentlemanly snort and threw three cubes of sugar into Brian’s cup before handing it to him.

“Drink it, you look like you need something warm inside you. Now, the food...,” Roger carefully examined the enormous pile of sandwiches, “... Mrs. Mack usually prepares some with roast chicken and French mushrooms, and others... yes, walnuts and sweet cheese. Which would you prefer?”

What was happening? Brian silently panicked, completely unprepared for the whole situation. Yesterday he had been living in a dirty hole in East End out of a can of beans per day, now he was sitting in a posh library next to a fireplace, with a creature of the most marvellous beauty serving him tea and sandwiches.

“Cheese,” he nearly choked on his tongue, and before he could put up a protest, Roger loaded at least seven of the sandwiches on a serving plate and handed it to him with a serviette.

“Eat, Mr. May.” 

Brian waited until Roger helped himself as well, and then sipped on the tea. Ooooh, yes, he needed this. The tea was hot and strong, and incredibly unlike the cheap suspicious leaves he boiled over and over at home. The combined warmth of the fire, hot tea and (just a little bit) of Mr. Taylor’s presence filled all of Brian’s body.  
This was so good... life was good... Hungrily, he bit into the sandwich and nearly moaned how delicious it was. He finished it and eagerly took another.  
While Brian was eating, Roger slowly lost his smile, and nibbling on his own meal, he stared into the fire, deep in thought.  
He sighed.

“Are you alright, Mr. Taylor?” Brian frowned, putting his sandwich away.

“Quite,” Roger assured him. “I’m just... worried, I suppose. My... my grandfather... But well, that’s the reason you’re here.”

“I’ll do whatever is in my power to help,” Brian promised.

For some reason, that amused Roger, though it wasn’t a happy smile. “I’m sure of that, Mr. May. I guess it’s just... you always know things like these will happed eventually, but when they come... it’s hard to watch... so hard...” Roger clutched the serviette in his hand, gazing in the flames. “So hard...”

Brian nodded. “I understand.”

“It’s just this bloody summer,” Roger complained, “I hoped for some sun, it would do him good, get him strong for another autumn and winter, but all the fog, cold, rain... God’s mocking me, Mr. May.”

Brian’s heart ached over all the despair he could hear in Roger’s voice. He recalled what Hince said before. Fanatically devoted. Roger looked genuinely upset now and Brian wanted nothing more than to comfort him, to promise the impossible, tell him what a rare sight he makes, to shelter him and to keep him from all the harm and cruel world...

“There might be some sunny days by the end of the month,” he said.

“I suppose,” Roger nodded absent-mindedly. Then he quickly got up. “I need to see him. I don’t care he sleeps. Come with me.”

Brian jumped up immediately, happy he was getting closer to the purpose of his presence in Norfolk. He followed Roger out of the room, upstairs and through a long corridor. The house looked even bigger from the inside.

“How many people live here?” he asked, prolonging his step even more to keep up with hurrying Roger. “Mr. Taylor?”

“Directly in the house? Just the two of us when it comes to family,” Roger replied, “then it’s our butler, Mr. Hince, Deborah, our maid, and Mrs. Mack, the cook. And now you, of course. There are more people managing stables and the estate, but they’re not allowed in. Most of the rooms are empty and locked. This used to be a full, happy house... but...” He shrugged.

“You might have a family one day,” Brian offered, “and fill the house again.”

Roger gave him such a sharp look Brian immediately regretted he had even opened his mouth. The rest of their way they walked in silence.

“Now listen,” Roger turned to Brian once they reached the very last door of the corridor, “my... grandfather is sometimes hard to deal with, understand? He’s an old man, with everything that comes with it. He might not like you, even though... who knows. Also, he’s got trouble with hearing, so you need to speak loudly and let him see your face.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Also, one last thing,” Roger emphasised, “he doesn’t like to be reminded of his age, understand? Call him John, just as I do.”

Brian was a bit taken aback by the unusual request but nodded. “As you wish, Mr. Taylor.”  
After all, rich men do often have their eccentricities, and if the mysterious owner of the Rhye Hall wished to be called “John” by his grandson and his staff, Brian was willing to indulge him.

Roger shortly knocked on the door and without waiting for an answer, he entered.

The bedroom was spacious and cosy. Everything there, from the king-sized bed with canopies to royal blue rug, draperies and furniture made of cherry tree wood, looked new and of the highest quality. Several paintings of bouquets and landscapes were possibly meant to cheer the place up, nevertheless, no painted flowers could chase away what was hanging in the air – a smell of age, sickness, and someone rotting alive.  
The old man was sitting in a chair by the window, not sleeping, but looking out pensively. He was just a wisp of a man, truly. Barely any hair, dry, pale, paper-like skin. Endless wrinkles ended up distorting his features, making the man look sad and bitter. The rest of the his body was hidden in a thick robe and a blanket, which was neatly folded over his legs.  
He didn’t hear them enter, and Roger quickly walked towards him, and kneeled next to the chair, so John wouldn’t have to look up.

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” Roger spoke gently, but louder than would be normal with younger people. “Did you enjoy the nap?”

John didn’t answer straight away, only swallowed and reached for Roger’s hand. He got it immediately, together with a tender smile.

“Here we go,” Roger cooed, “now, will you tell me how you slept, John?”

John let out a soft giggle and gestured Roger to lean in closer. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he whispered loudly, “I just wanted them to go away.”

“Aren’t you a bad boy,” the young man chastised him, before he continued more matter-of-factly. “I came to tell you - we have a company today.”

John seemed confused. 

“The boy from London.” Roger didn’t lose any of his composure. “The one to take care of you, remember?”

“Yes,” John sighed, “yes, I remember... Roger? Is he... good? Do you like him?”

Roger hesitated with an answer, glancing towards Brian nervously. “Yes,” he admitted, “I like him very much.”

Brian’s heart fluttered, but Roger’s attention was fully on John now. The old man looked out of the window again and seemed to space out, but then he nodded.  
“If you like him, Roger... then... I’m glad.”

“He’s here to take care of you,” Roger emphasized the last word. “He’s in this room. Do you want to see him?”

Brian noticed how firmly John clutched Roger’s hand.

“Will I see him tomorrow?” John asked.

“Yes, he’ll be helping you from tomorrow morning.”

“Then I don’t want to see him today,” John decided quietly. “Roger... I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

Roger nodded attentively, and straightened John’s blanket. “Do you wish me to stay here with you?”

John considered the offer but shook his head. “You go with the new boy,” he decided, “leave me alone.”

“John, don’t...”

“I want to be alone!” This retort sounded surprisingly strong and sharp.

Roger got up. “Very well, then,” he said sharply, brushing off his knees, “I’ll show him to his room, but after dinner I’m coming back, whether you like it or not.”

John either couldn’t hear him or didn’t want to, and Roger stormed out of the bedroom, dragging “the boy from London” behind him.

Brian wasn’t exactly sure what he just witnessed, but Hince’s description of Roger’s and John’s relationship started to make a lot of sense. They certainly surpassed every grandparent and grandson he’d ever seen.

“I show you where you’ll sleep now,” Roger interrupted his line of thoughts. “It’s just above John’s bedroom. That way you should be able to hear his bell.”

It’s only natural, after all, Brian kept thinking as Roger led him upstairs, if they are the only family members left, living here together in such a lonely place as Rhye Hall, of course they grow close.

“Your room, Mr. May,” Roger opened one of the doors on the top floor. “I hope you’ll find it comfortable.”

It was quite simply furnished and not very decorated, but it was warm, and the bed looked soft... Compared to what Brian got used to, this looked like heaven on earth.  
“It’s perfect,” Brian smiled. “Thank you so much, Mr. Taylor.”

Roger nodded. “Don’t mention it.” He looked at Brian for a moment, something apparently on his mind. Then he simply entered the room and opened the draperies. 

Brian followed him in.

“When you look outside,” Roger instructed, “you can see the marchland, going all the way to the beach. I’d rather warn you sooner than later – never go there alone.”

“Of course. I suppose the terrain can be dangerous.”

“Yes, the terrain... and other things.”

Brian shot him a sharp look. “What do you mean, Mr. Taylor?”

Roger looked out of the window, closed the draperies again and then turned to Brian. “You’ve never heard any of the stories about North Norfolk, Mr. May? The Yow Yows? The hytersprites of Blakeney Tunnels? The lady in brown brocade in Raynham Hall? The Screaming Cockler of Stiffkey?”

“I’m afraid I have not, Mr. Taylor.”

He might find the list of Norfolk’s bogeymen quite amusing, but Roger’s face looked way too serious for any joking.  
“The point is, Mr. May...,” the blond man lowered his voice, “these marshlands... they’ve taken many lives through the centuries. So many, that the boundaries which usually divide life from death got blurred and vague. That’s why I’m warning you, Mr. May, be careful. The dead live here... while the living die for it.”

“I’ve never been one for ghost stories, Mr. Taylor, I’m afraid,” Brian replied diplomatically, avoiding calling his employer’s quirk a nonsense. Maybe Roger just enjoyed scaring people.

Roger smiled. “Very good. I’m glad I haven’t ruined your appetite before dinner. Still, mind the terrain.”

Brian nodded. “I will.”

“I’ll see you later then. I suggest you unpack and get comfortable.” Roger nearly left, before he turned in the door once more. “I nearly forgot – welcome to the Rhye Hall, Mr. May.”

And he was gone.  
The wailing wind sounded from the empty corridor and the floors creaked. Brian sat down on the bed and closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe it was just Roger’s very suggestive narration, or his mind played things with him – but he’d swear he could hear a soft laugh, right before his candle went out.


	2. Sanctuary

Brian didn’t have the best night. Drops of heavy rain coming from the north kept hammering on his window, and the howling wind from the corridor went on wailing, impossible to cease. The house itself was almost too loud as well, for all the squeaks and groans of the old wooden roof and floors.

Several times during the night cracks sounded so close Brian lit a candle, convinced someone broke into his room – but nothing.

Breathe, Brian, breathe... It’s your fist night here, tomorrow you start your new job, it’s only natural to be nervous. Try to take some sleep. It’s just an old house.

He sighed. Whatever way he positioned himself in the bed, it was wrong. He was hot, he was cold, he was thirsty... the list went on.  
Besides, his stomach felt heavy and uncomfortable after the rich, full dinner Roger had forced into him the evening before with a goodnight glass of brandy and several pieces of some rare Turkish sweets (“from my secret stock,” Roger whispered cheekily). Brian regretted everything.

The morning came quite suddenly, with Deborah banging on his door.  
“Mr. May! Wake up! I’ve got a hot water for you!”

Brian slowly sat up on the bed, sleepy, his mane of curls even more unruly than ever. He rubbed his eyes and supressed a yawn.

“Come in!”

Deborah barged into the room resolutely, already completely dressed and awake, making Brian wonder when the hell had she got up. But again, it wasn’t her job to stay with Roger in the “green salon” till after midnight. Well, neither was his, but he couldn’t just excuse himself, could he.

“Here’s the water and a washcloth,” she put the items on Brian’s nightstand with a bang, “make yourself presentable and then get down to help the old man. He likes to get up at seven sharp. You help him with washing up, changing and breakfast. Any questions?”

“Eh... what time is it?”

“A quarter past six. Good morning, Mr. May.”

She left and banged the door shut.

Brian sighed. “Good morning, Deborah!” he called, and maybe she even heard him.

He chased off the last waves of sleepiness and got up. It wasn’t raining anymore, but the sky stayed grey like a lead, so, no guarantee the rain was truly over.  
Quickly, Brian got dressed, doing his best to discipline his hair, then he washed his face and brushed his teeth. The hot water worked its magic, so when he finally went downstairs, five minutes to seven, no one would guess he wasn’t perfectly rested and prepared for everything the day could bring. His insides twisted like a bunch of snakes.

He knocked and entered the bedroom, seven sharp.

“Good morning, eh... John,” he said loudly and put on a smile, even though the old man in the bed could hardly appreciate it. Brian drew the draperies open to let the light in.  
Deborah once again appeared like a ghost, bringing another bowl of hot water, and a tray with breakfast.  
From the window, Brian headed towards the bed. With a mildly apologetic feeling and another “good morning, John” he shook the old man’s shoulder, waking him up to help with the morning routine.

It’s not even that bad, Brian thought, trying to perform the rather intimate tasks as professionally as possible. John was still sleepy and seemed rather confused and absent, so the all the social requirements were satisfied by Brian only, as he was pointing out the tasks just performed and mindlessly chatted about the weather. He wasn’t sure if the old man was really detached from reality or just simply ignoring him, but... could be worse.

Finally, John was washed and dressed.

“Aaand now,” Brian continued, “the breakfast. Are you hungry? I imagine you haven’t eaten much for dinner. It seems Deborah brought some tea, and cheese, and toasts, I can see butter and eggs... can I help you to the table?”

Brian politely waited for some reaction but didn’t get any, so he reached for his patient’s arm himself.

Then finally, John looked up. “Give me my cane,” he asked quietly.

Brian readily obliged. “Here it is. Careful now.”

John needed help to get up, but once he was standing, he clutched the cane tightly and shuffled to the breakfast table by the window. Brian walked very slowly behind him, ready to steady or catch the man. Luckily, everything went without a hitch and soon John was safely seated.

“Here we go,” Brian poured him tea and served two toasts from the tray. Then he hesitated, unsure if any help is required.

John noticed the pause. “Did she bring any papers?” he asked.

“Yes, here.”

“Read them to me.”

Yesterday’s papers, Brian noticed, but considering the geographical issues, there was no way the morning copy of Eastern Daily Press could arrive on time. 

“Eh, so... Great victory, Beijing entered by the Eight-Nation alliance,” Brian read the headline concerning the war in China and proceeded to the article.

It was quite a nice half-an-hour, of Brian reading and stealing glances at John here and there, to intervene if there was any sign of trouble. The old man’s hands were shaking every time he slowly raised them to take a bite, but he stubbornly proceeded. 

Suddenly, in the middle of the second toast, John asked: “So... you are the new boy?”

“...following the death of The Lord Chief Justice – eh? Yes, my name is Brian May,” he nodded, “at your service.”

John slowly exhaled. “I’m...,“ he kneaded his forehead, “... Roger told me yesterday, didn’t he? Surely he told me...”

“Yes, he did,” Brian agreed, “in the afternoon, when I arrived.”

John didn’t argue, instead, he looked at Brian again. “I’m sure he will like you,” he mumbled, “you’re such a pretty, handsome boy... I used to be as well, you know.”

Brian felt a bit uncomfortable but answered: “I’m sure you were very handsome. Just look at Roger. I’m sure he takes a lot from you.”

John looked out of the window and said weakly: “Yes, he takes a lot... but I... I decided to do it. So, it’s my doing, only mine...”

“Yes..., I suppose,” Brian wasn’t exactly sure what the old man is talking about but decided to just go with it and change the subject. “Did your son look a lot like Roger?”

John glanced back at him, surprised and confused. “My... my son? What son?”

“Roger’s father,” Brian specified.

“Roger’s father is dead,” John replied matter-of-factly, “for years... and years...”

“I’m so sorry...”

John waved his gaunt hand. “You don’t have to. He wasn’t nice... Roger told me. Not nice to Roger... not nice to Freddie...” Here John suddenly stopped, words dying out on his lips. He looked even more confused than before, distraught even. “I shouldn’t say... I can’t talk about...”

“Shh, what is it?” Brian moved closer. “Don’t worry, I-”

“Where is Roger?” John looked around as if he expected the small blond just appear out of thin air. “Where is he? He needs to come and-”

Brian caught his hand. “Calm down, John, please. Breathe. All is well.” He took a bell from the table and rang.

Deborah appeared on the doorstep in a minute.  
“Have you called?”

“Could you tell Mr. Taylor his grandfather wishes to see him?” Brian asked politely.

Deborah shrugged. “Mr. Taylor went for a ride. Who knows when he returns. But once he does, I’ll tell him. Is that all?”

Brian nodded. “Yes, that would be all.”

The maid disappeared.

“You see?” Brian turned to the old man with a smile. “The minute Roger comes back, we call him to come here. I’m sure he will be happy to see you today, so well rested.”

John didn’t answer. He looked down, seemingly hypnotizing the carpet pattern. Then he raised his stiffened, shaky hand to his forehead again, kneading it slowly, and sighed.

“What is it, John?” Brian asked gently. “Did something happen? Can I help?”

“My... my head...,” John whispered, “so... hazy sometimes. And I thought I had so much time, it ran so fast...”

“It’s alright, John,” Brian tried to sound soothingly, “that happens. And you’re among friends here. Can I help you with the tea? You need to drink something.”

He poured John’s cup full and supported the old man’s unsteady hands. Together they brought the cup to John’s lips.

“Is Roger here?” John mumbled.

“No, he’s not. Deborah says he’s riding.”

Brian noticed John’s stare got a bit unfocused yet again. “So handsome, my Roger...,” he stated, “so handsome... you think so too, don’t you?”

Dammit, Brian thought in panic, was he so bad at concealing his nature that even unbalanced old men could tell?

Suddenly, John grabbed Brian’s wrist. “You can’t refuse him,” he whispered pleadingly, “once he asks you.”

“I’m at his service, John,” Brian reminded, “just as at yours.”

“He will need you. Soon, I know. Once I’m not here.”

Brian squeezed his hand. “I’m sure you’ll be here for Roger for many years to come. Now, what about some more tea?”

“I’m tired,” John mumbled.

Before Brian could offer his assistance, a sound of hooves on paving stones echoed from the outside. He walked to the open window and looked out.

“Mr. Taylor just returned,” Brian announced happily, glancing towards John, but his eyes quickly, almost involuntarily, turned back to the courtyard and Roger.  
He was wearing the same grey riding suit as yesterday when they met, only this time it wasn’t soaked wet, and shy rays of sunlight created golden gleam in the wavy blond hair. 

Roger kept sitting in the saddle, leaning forward and whispering something to the horse, a big chestnut stallion. 

Suddenly, Roger looked up. Brian wanted to withdraw quickly, but too late, the blond man already noticed, and waved at him with a wide smile.  
Brian waved back awkwardly, unsure if he was supposed to do so, but apparently the answer was yes.  
Roger raised his hand in a “just wait” gesture and heeled the horse again. They began to trot very slowly around the courtyard in a circle, head high as if performing at some dressage show.  
Brian giggled. It was just too ridiculous, especially when Roger winked at him again, and at his command the horse extended his gait, now kicking his legs way forward in the trot. Brian couldn’t but be amazed, even though somehow Roger’s cocky smile and overly straightened back in pretended self-importance made this show nearly comical to watch. The horse finished three circles around the courtyard, then Roger ordered something again, and this time, the exact opposite happened. The horse shortened his stride, bringing his hindquarters underneath himself. This tip-toeing forced Roger to post to the trot, rising up and down in rhythm to avoid being jolted. By all that bouncing, Brian’s attention was irrevocably drawn to certain Roger’s ehm... certain region in the back, hugged tightly by the riding breeches, and firm, shapely thighs. Brian swallowed and found his mouth completely dry. The air around was getting hotter and hard to breathe.  
Unable to look away, he closed his eyes shut firmly, opening them again only when the sound of hooves ceased.

Roger was standing right under the window, looking up.  
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” he called teasingly. “Did you like what you’ve seen?”

Brian took a brief moment before answering. “You have a very beautiful horse, Mr. Taylor!”

Roger laughed, and the sound made the treacherous fire in Brian’s lower stomach burn higher and more urgently than before.

“Your grandfather wishes to see you,” Brian said quickly, stepped back from the window and banged it shut.

In the meantime, John was sleeping soundly on the chair, head dangling, his chin meeting his chest. He seemed comfortable, so Brian didn’t wake him.  
It wasn’t even a minute when the door opened, and Roger entered. His cheeks were flushed from the all the cold air, exercise and most possibly also from running up the stairs.  
He headed straight to John and drew a chair to sit next to him.

“Good morning, my dear,” Roger crooned and took John’s hand, waking him up. John blinked several times and Roger gave him time to sort out the confusion.

John smiled. “Roger...”

The young man leaned in to kiss his grandfather’s forehead. “Aren’t we handsome today,” Roger teased, “and you’ve eaten your breakfast today, well, look at you.”

Brian swallowed and stepped back a bit. The whole scene was making him a bit uncomfortable, though he couldn’t explain why.

John caressed Roger’s cheek. “Have you been out?” he asked.

Roger nodded. “Yes, I’ve been riding. It’s a beautiful day.”

“Roger?” John looked a bit anxious now.

“Yes, what is it?”

“The new boy...”

“Mr. May, John,” Roger corrected him, “or you can call him Brian.”

John ignored the name, only clutched Roger’s hand more firmly. “Take him out with you, today. I don’t want... I...”

Roger’s brows furrowed. “Did he do anything?”

Oh, God... Brian’s heart sank as he waited for the old man’s next words. Did he do something wrong? Maybe, he wasn’t sure. Roger would certainly fire him if he did, no doubt about that.

“He asked me questions about... everybody. You tell him, I don’t want to...”

Roger sighed. “I understand. I’ll tell him. He won’t be asking you again.” He only looked up to Brian, who nodded. 

John looked calmer now and caressed Roger’s hand he’d been holding. “Take him for a walk now,” he said quietly, “you should have some time together.”

“You know you don’t have to worry about this, John,” Roger reprimanded him, his tone sharper than Brian expected. “This is my business.”

“Is it?” John’s stare pierced him, the haziness apparently gone for the moment. 

“As you wish,” Roger huffed. “Mr. May?” he turned to Brian so quickly Brian didn’t even have a chance to decide if he was supposed to pretend he hadn’t heard the whole conversation. “Would you accompany me for breakfast?”

Brian looked at Roger, then at John, then at Roger again. “If your grandfather doesn’t wish anything else from me, Mr. Taylor, then I’d be delighted,” he answered diplomatically.  
Roger wasn’t in mood for pleasantries, it seemed, because he simply grabbed Brian’s elbow and literally dragged him out of the room.

“Mr. Taylor, I’m so sorry,” Brian blurted out immediately after the door shut behind them.

Roger raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“Eh... for upsetting your grandfather?”

After a moment of silence, Roger chuckled. “Believe me, Mr. May, this will happen in the future many, many times. But anyway, I must ask you not to upset him further, which means no questions about the past or our family. If you feel you need to know something, ask me, do we understand each other?”

Brian nodded. “We do, sir.” 

Side by side, they entered the dining hall to find Mr. Hince just serving breakfast.

“Bring another plate,” Roger asked cheerily, “there’s two of us today.”

The table in the dining hall was long and robust. Roger already took place at the head of it and Brian hoped to slide on the other side quietly, but his employer had none of it.

“Sit next to me, Mr. May,” Roger invited him, “I hate when I have to shout to the other side just to have a conversation.”

Brian sat down obediently on the chair offered, while Mr. Hince already started to serve tea and full English. Brian stared at the food in disbelief. There was bacon, scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, toasts with a large lump of butter by their side, and sausages, all of that in amount which could feed several families, in Brian’s opinion.  
Timidly, he moved some eggs and tomatoes onto his plate.

Roger, who already happily dug into his sausages, looked at him with a lenient smile.  
“You’re staring as if you’ve never seen food before,” he commented, “even though,” the baby blue eyes measured Brian critically, “it might be so. You need to take better care of yourself, all the clothes are hanging on you. Skip few more meals and I could as well hire you as a scarecrow.”

Brian only nodded, not knowing how to answer. He was very tall and skinny by nature, but the few hungry years behind him left their unforgiving mark, making him literally skin and bones. The criticism hurt though, and the tightness in his throat around Roger didn’t help with enjoying the meal at all. 

“So... you liked my horse you said,” Roger continued nonchalantly after a moment, leaving the topic of Brian’s complexion, which was highly appreciated. 

“It’s very beautiful,” Brian nodded and sipped on his tea. It seemed to be some other brand than yesterday, but equally strong and delicious.

“We have our stables some five minutes by foot from here,” Roger added, “we breed Hanoverians. I mean,” he laughed, “the Hanoverian horses, not people. They’re the most handsome breed, in my opinion. Robust, elegant, strong back and limbs. You can assess the strength easily by looking at their rear. Surely you noticed in the morning. I mean – have you ever seen an arse like that?”

Brian only hoped his blush wasn’t as visible as he suspected. “I have not, Mr. Taylor.”

Roger seemed not to notice anything unusual, and continued: “Currently there are sixteen horses, but that rascal you saw is my favourite.”

“What’s his name?” Brian inquired quickly, trying to get the conversation as far from rears as possible.

“Romeo,” Roger answered and smiled. “I hope he’ll end up less tragically than his literary namesake. He’s far less romantic, anyway.” He shrugged. “From how he covers his mares one’d think he’s a rabbit. By that I mean the eagerness, not the pizzle, because considering that he’s far from rabbits, he’s like...” Roger spread his arms to show a length of at least 5 feet and chuckled. “I have to say, I’m behind him in the area, though not as much as one’d think.” 

Brian choked on his eggs.

The cold outside was a blessing for Brian, as they walked side by side with Roger in the vague direction of stables.

“Do you enjoy the country air, Mr. May?” Roger inquired.

Brian nodded with a smile. “Very much, sir. I don’t miss London. Especially with all the chimneys smoking, sometimes the air isn’t even see-through, and the smells something terrible.” He sniffed experimentally. Only faint smell of woods, horses, dampness, stale water and a hint of salt from the sea. One could even hear the waves, if listening carefully.

“Did you spend your whole life in London?” Roger inquired.

“I was born in Hampton,” Brian said, “our family had a house there, my father worked for the government. And I studied physics and mathematics on Royal College of Science.”

“You have a degree from a university? Why on Earth did you take this job here then?”

Brian’s blush didn’t have anything in common with intimate matters this time.  
“I didn’t finish it,” he admitted quietly.

“You left?”

“I was asked... to leave. So I did.” Brian looked away and quickly pointed to the nearest tree. “Is that a pigeon or a kestrel?”

“A squirrel,” Roger replied without even glancing that direction. “Why did they ask you to leave?”

Dammit. “Eh...,” Brian hesitated. “There was... an issue. Between students.”

Roger raised an eyebrow. “An issue?”

Brian’s body tensed, he clutched his fists and clenched his teeth. So, this is it.

“Mr. Taylor... could you... could I not...” Why did his voice have to break just now? Why? Why? 

“Brian,” Roger said firmly and stopped. “Brian, look at me.”

Brian did so, the tension clearly written in his face. Suddenly, he was tired.

Roger took his hand and didn’t move even when Brian flinched at the touch. “Brian,” he whispered again, “calm down. I know about it.”

Brian’s eyes opened wide. “You... you know? What do you know? How?”

“When I was searching for a carer,” Roger explained, “I wrote letters to several employment agencies in London to send me files of people available. You were among those few I asked more about. It struck me as strange you didn’t last more than two months in any household. So I paid the agent something extra and inquired why. He squirmed a bit, but at the end he told me. You left the university, your father disowned you. And... that special friend of yours... back then... he’d been imprisoned, hadn’t he?”

Brian nodded imperceptibly, his heart beating so fast he felt it in his throat, tears burning in his eyes. “He had. They found evidence on him only, but I was lucky... I... I...”

“Shhh,” Roger cooed, still holding Brian’s hand, caressing it gently, “you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. Or if you do, I’m here and listening. Just know this is a safe ground for you. People like us... used to be accepted long, long time ago. And perhaps, one day, we’ll be again. But until then, trust me when I say, you have found your sanctuary, Mr. May. This is your home now.”

He gave Brian’s hand one last squeeze and let go.  
“Come, Mr. May. We should get back in the house, John might be in need for some company.”


	3. Musica Humana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laudanum - a tincture of opium, contains among other morphine and codeine, in the 19th century it was widely used as pain medication, and sold without prescription

The sun was already gone from the sky, when Brian prepared John for bed and wished him good night. He was very careful not to ask anything and basically avoided small talk all together. John seemed fine with the arrangement, submitting himself under Brian’s care silently.

“And here we go,” Brian smiled and helped John lift his legs on the bed. The old man groaned as his joints creaked. “A good warm bed will help the backache. Are you comfortable?”

Getting no answer, he repeated the question one more time. Finally, the old man reacted by shaking his head.

“Everything... hurts,” John whispered. His voice was child-like and vulnerable. Gaunt, bony hand covered in liver stains grabbed Brian’s forearm. The young carer’s heart nearly broke when he realized the feeble grip was the strongest one John could manage.

“You had your laudanum,” Brian reminded him and carefully took John’s hand in his, “it will take hold shortly.”

“... making me drowsy,” John mumbled. “Roger?”

“He has to finish some letters, so they can go with the morning post, but I’m sure he’ll come to wish you good night.”

Once again, Brian wasn’t sure if the old man ignored him or couldn’t hear him. John looked away towards the window. This was one of the rare nights when no clouds blocked the view of a starry sky.

Brian watched his patient’s pupils get smaller and the old body relax thanks to the drug.

“You, boy...,” John whispered, fighting the sleep, “... you’re a good one.”

“Thank you,” Brian replied, grateful for the assessment, though a little unsure how much in possession of his faculties John was.

“Tell me,” John mumbled vaguely in Brian’s direction, his words slurred, “do you think you’re stupid?”

That was an unexpected question. “Eh... I hope not,” Brian replied unsurely.

“For your sake I hope you are,” John let go of his forearm, his head falling deeper into the pillow, “everything’s easier... that way. And soon you will be... he’ll make you... stupid... his stupid little boy. No other way...”

“Is he asleep?”

Brian turned around to the door. The loud whisper startled him.

Roger quickly entered the room and approached the bed. Dim lights made his features even softer and warm, but also filled the handsome face with spooky shadows.

“Oh,” he smiled at the sight of John, and neatened his blanket even though Brian just did that.  
The old man’s eyes were closed now, and his breathing deep and regular.

“I was hoping to catch him still awake,” Roger stated, and his eyes sparkled in the candlelight, “you must be very good at bedtime stories.”

“I’m trying my best, sir,” Brian replied. “And it’s been a tiring day for him.”

“And I’m sure for you as well. I take it from here, Mr. May. You go to sleep.”

“Are you sure-”

“Quite sure,” Roger said quickly and turned his attention to John, “please, Brian, go now. I want to be alone with him.” He caressed the sleeping man’s face and brushed his thumb over a tear forming in John’s eye. “My poor John... poor, poor John...”

With a feeling he was present to a rather intimate moment, Brian got up. “Good night, Mr. Taylor.”

“Good night, Brian. And Brian?”

“Yes, Mr. Taylor?”

Roger hesitated a little before smiling. “Sweet dreams.”  
The smile was soft, warm and tender and left Brian lost for words, giddy feeling rising in his stomach. To avoid Roger noticing his dopey face, Brian retreated hastily and closed the door. The last thing he saw was Roger leaning over John and taking his hand under the blanket.

Brian slowly plodded up the stairs, tired. Not physically, besides waking John up and getting him to bed he spent the day either sitting around or walking leisurely, but his mind raced at greater speed than his consciousness could manage.

There was a mix of emotions he couldn’t put into place. Happy, sad, disturbed, touched... all at once. John’s words kept coming to him even though he tried to push them away. It would be naive to take him seriously, Brian thought, the man was old, confused and drugged, but... the distress stayed. Yes, now he wished he were stupider, so he wouldn’t feel an urge to overanalyse the situation over and over.

The same feeling that had caught him when he had entered the Rhye Hall yesterday came back, less urgent, but present nonetheless. The sensation of cold... dread... and wrongness... in these quiet corridors and empty halls...

His breathing quickened, leaving with a lack of oxygen and an unexplainable agitation.

Calm down, Brian, for God’s sake! Now, you’re being stupid now! Breathe. Calm down.

Brian sat down at the bottom of the staircase, trying to think of something soothing, something... nice, to put his mind out of the vicious circle of emotional panicking.  
Home. Their house in Hampton... the garden... summer... his mother in old green dress, her silhouette shaped like an hourglass by a corset... calling him for lunch, while he sat in some remote corner of their garden with a book. He remembered Pixie, beloved kitten, sleeping on his lap... playing with feathers he picked for her... eagerly meowing every time Brian would fill her little bowl with milk...  
Yes, this was working...

It occurred to him, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to go down to the kitchen and get himself some warm milk before going to bed. Anything to have a night calmer than the previous one.

Brian was surprised to discover that the lights in the kitchen were lit up.

“You must be the new boy!” Mrs. Mack, the cook, exclaimed excitedly the moment he opened the creaky door. Despite the late hour she seemed very much busy, pre-preparing meals for tomorrow. Several pots on the stove were steaming, making the scene quite domestic. The cook herself was a hearty woman between forty and fifty with long grizzled hair pulled up in a messy bun. Her maternal figure and a majestic pair of breasts threatened to pop buttons of her dress every time she inhaled.

“Yes... I’m Brian May, madam.”

She giggled. “Uhmph, madam. It’s a long time since I’ve been called ‘madam’. Please, do come in and sit down, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t mean to disturb-”

“Nonsense,” she silenced him, gesturing to a nearest chair with a stirring spoon. Brian sat down obediently. “Now I give you something to eat and you must tell me everything about yourself.”

“Oh, no, please, I came just for-”

But she was already digging in the pantry. “There are things left from today’s afternoon tea, of course, some scones, what do you say? With clotted cream, strawberry jam...”

“-.... some warm milk,” Brian mumbled, unable to stop the woman from putting several scones on a plate together with a small mountain of cream.

“... plum or apple cake, or if you’re not in mood for sweets... I know, I make some sandwiches,” she smiled. “Fresh bread, nice and soft, cream cheese and cucumber, crusts away, just like mummy would do.”

“I don’t want to eat, Mrs. Mack!” Brian emphasized weakly. “I just couldn’t sleep and-”

“That’s because you’re so skinny, sweetheart,” Mrs. Mack diagnosed in a second. Brian didn’t really have strength to point out the leap of logic in this claim.

“Mrs. Mack, you’re very kind, but-”

“Oh, that’s no trouble,” she assured him. “I warm up milk for you, and what do you say we add some chamomile. If that won’t help you sleep, my poor dear, nothing will.”  
Finally getting somewhere, Brian thought.

Some fifteen minutes later he started his already second cup of milk with chamomile. The downside was, along the way, Mrs. Mack forced him to polish off several scones, a cucumber sandwich and a slice of apple cake, while she inquired everything about his family, childhood and every detail of his life so far. Oh, yes, he lied a lot.

“And – how long do you live at Rhye Hall?” Brian turned the conversation at the nearest opportunity.

“This week it will be two years, sweetheart,” she smiled. “I came here three weeks before Mr. Hince did. And Deborah is a new addition, just over five months.”

Brian raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Everybody’s quite new then. I imagined you living here for decad- eh, for a long time...” he finished awkwardly.

Mrs. Mack laughed and added some clotted cream on Brian’s scone. “Oh, no, nobody lasted that long. I talked with Mrs. Richards, the previous cook, when I came. She’d been here for four years, as well as the one before her.”

“Why is that?” Brian frowned. “Aren’t the conditions good?”

“It’s Mr. Taylor, sweetheart,” Mrs. Mack replied, “it seems firing staff from time to time for no reason is one of his favourite entertainments. I heard he liked fresh faces around the house. If that’s the case, I wonder why he spends so much time with his grandfather.” She chuckled. “People are strange, aren’t they.”

Brian couldn’t but agree. This was a side of Roger he didn’t like hearing about and wasn’t sure how to react. He finished his milk instead.

“God, that man has a terrible temper from time to time,” Mrs. Mack continued, “and don’t have me even started on how he treated the previous carers.”

“Please,” Brian leaned in, and made a face as the movement disturbed his full stomach, “what happened to them?”

“They didn’t last a week. I remember... three or four,” the cook shrugged, “all of them young, handsome boys just like you. It’s always the same. The old master’s health worsens, and the young one starts looking for a carer. Then the boy arrives, stays for few days, everything seems to be going well – until Mr. Taylor turns into a complete maniac, starts screaming at the boy, throws things at him and fires him on the spot. After the last time, Deborah told me the old master had been quite displeased. Terrible argument.”

Brian blinked. “Between John and the carer?”

“Oh, no! Between John and his grandson! After Mr. Taylor fired the carer. One’d never imagine those two would argue. They kept yelling at each other for nearly half an hour! Then Mr. Taylor stormed out, took his horse and we didn’t see him for two days. Curious, isn’t it?”

“Indeed...,” Brian mumbled.

With hindsight, this trip to the kitchen hadn’t been the greatest idea, he thought. He sat there, drowsy, miserably stuffed, and confused. Confused and sad, to be precise. In his mind he had the image of Roger as handsome, witty, funny and caring gentleman. Firing his employees on a whim and screaming at John about it – that didn’t fit the picture at all.

“I’m just saying,” Mrs. Mack continued, “you should enjoy your stay here, sweetheart, while it lasts. Who knows when your time comes? And eat that last scone, come on.”

“I can’t, Mrs. Mack, I’m so sorry, it’s delicious but-”

“Would you want me to just throw it away? There are starving children in London, young man!”

Brian mumbled something and bit into the scone. Mrs. Mack added more jam on it, apparently just to make a point.

Suddenly, the kitchen door creaked again.

“What’s this?”

Brian choked, trying to swallow quickly. The familiar pair of baby blue eyes looked at him with amusement.  
Roger was already dressed for bed, wearing only an old fashioned long white nightdress and a heavy velvet dressing gown. In his right hand he held a candle.

“Mr. Taylor!” the cook gasped and got up. “What do we owe the surprise?”

Roger kept looking at Brian whose cheeks burned with embarrassment. He felt tired, bloated and sticky – basically the opposite of what he wished Roger to see.

“I was looking for Mr. May,” Roger said after a moment, and seemed to fight an internal laughter, “I wanted to wish him good night, but he wasn’t in his room, so... I worried.”

He came to see him in his room?

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Taylor...,” Brian got up too quickly and hiccupped, “... ah... I’m sorry you worried.”

Roger’s smile became even wider. “Mrs. Mack, I’m afraid I have to steal your gentleman friend. Mr. May, there is something I want you to see. Come with me.”

Brian gave quick good night to Mrs. Mack and headed out of the kitchen with Roger. He was excited about whatever Roger planned to show him. On the other hand, he couldn’t but wonder if it wouldn’t simply wait until morning.

In the entrance hall Roger stopped and smiled. Then he licked his finger and dutifully rubbed Brian’s nose.  
“Strawberry jam,” he explained, grinning. “Are you often hungry in the middle of the night?”

“I... I went there for milk,” Brian explained. “I didn’t mean to...”

Roger chuckled. “I know. I have my own experiences with that woman. Before she got here I weighed six pounds less.”

Brian looked at him, but honestly couldn’t find any evidence of that.

“I need to warn you though,” Roger continued, “I hired her under quite peculiar circumstances. She’s from Germany, area around Schwarzwald, and owned a lovely little house in the woods. But then the villagers decided to burn her at a stake, because apparently, she had found two young children lost in the forest...” Roger touched Brian’s slightly bloated stomach and slowly finger-walked up, “... fed them soooo much they couldn’t even move...” he continued over his chest, clavicles, and neck, “...all ready for her to eeeeeat them up.” With a smirk he finished by tapping Brian’s nose.

Brian just stood there, dumbfounded. What on Earth just happened? Did Roger really... touch him like that? He felt goose bumps all over his body, and abundant butterflies appeared in his stomach, making him slightly nauseous.  
Then he realized Roger was waiting for an answer.

“Eh... that’s the plot of Hansel and Gretel, isn’t it?” he asked carefully, too tired to think.

“Yes!” Roger rolled his eyes. “It’s Hansel and Gretel and also – a joke. You’re supposed to laugh.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Brian giggled slightly.

“Well, that sounded convincing,” Roger deadpanned, and smiled again. “Enough teasing now, I promise. Come with me.”

He led Brian through the hall, in the salon and on a terrace. Cold night air felt fresh and smelled of sea.  
Brian noticed how Roger shivered. He must’ve been cold. They stood side by side quietly for some time, looking into the darkness. The air was strangely still, and all the sounds of night could be heard clearly. Right in front of them there were the marshlands, wide and hollow, lit by the moonlight, looking almost like an alien land.

“Clear nights are rare here,” Roger said quietly, “I thought you might want to see the stars.”

Brian looked up religiously. The sky made an image that never ceased to fascinate him. Black velvety depth with small silvery freckles across its face, arranged together in a spectacle that felt as if it wasn’t even intended for a mere human to see. And with Roger by his side... somehow, it got a whole new meaning to him. Yet another one.

“I know about your interest,” Roger admitted, “Mr. Hince told me after unpacking your luggage. He said more than half of it had been books about stars. Tell me, Mr. May, what is it that fascinates you?”

Brian’s breath got caught in his throat and he took some time to answer.  
“It’s the mystery, I suppose,” he replied, deep in thought, “things so far... beyond our grasp. Things we’re trying to understand for centuries, passing our findings on and on and adding up, yet still, we know so little... not even one thousandth of what is there, lurking in the distance, waiting to be understood.”

“Is that so?”

Brian nodded. “Just recently I read about one research... in America. Since Lockyer investigated the spectra of elements at various temperatures and pressures and discovered helium – which stars are made of – The Harvard College Observatory started a research program of stellar spectral classification, sorting the spectra recorded on photographic plates. Now they have a catalogue of over ten thousand stars, grouped into thirteen spectral types. Isn’t is just fascinating?”

“Fascinating,” Roger nodded, supressing laughter, “but I’m so sorry, Mr. May, you lost me right at the spectra of elements.”

“Oh.” Now Brian felt a bit self-conscious, as always when he let himself be carried away. Talking about invisible wavelength spectrums during a romantic starry night, stupid, stupid.

They stood in silence for a moment.

“So...,” Roger started again, “... that’s you. The great detective of the night sky. Tell me, Mr. May, you talked about the mysteries – would you like to see them solved? To know how it works?”

Brian nodded. “It would be... unimaginable,” he whispered, “so much... You don’t think so, Mr. Taylor?”

“I think the beauty is sometimes in the mystery itself,” Roger replied slowly, “and the thing loses its magic once you see how it works. Not all riddles are made for solving, there’s a certain... allure around problems without solution. Life... death... health and sickness... We can’t change them, we can’t resolve them... That’s why religions exist, belief in God, in magic, spells, potions, witches, ghosts and fairies. Much more graceful. And poetic.”

“You’d choose a poetic viewpoint over a scientific solution?” Brian asked quickly, and the question got out sharper than he’d intended.

  
Roger took no offence. “Why not both?” he objected and smiled. “Have you ever read Aristotle, Mr. May? He wrote about the Sun, Moon, Earth and stars as if they were all dancing together along mysterious melodies...”

“... which we cannot hear,” Brian nodded, “yes, I read that. Very poetic indeed.”

“Every time I look at the sky, I think he might be right,” Roger said inquisitively, “all of them, joined in a great dance. He called it musica universalis.”

“Music of the spheres,” Brian whispered. “You think it really exists?”

Roger grinned. “Prove me that it doesn’t, Mr. May. After all, the other kinds of music are very real, so why couldn’t this one exist as well?”

Brian was intrigued and looked at Roger. The moonlight was dancing over the blond hair, making the man look almost aethereal. “Other kinds?” he asked. ”What other kinds?”

“It’s actually a medieval concept,” Roger explained, “musica universalis, which we talked about, but then there’s musica instrumentalis – music made by singers and instruments, and... musica humana, the internal music of our body, Mr. May.”

Something about the way Roger said the last sentence made Brian weak in the knees, and the butterflies in his stomach awakened once again.

“I... I don’t think there is any music in human body, Mr. Taylor,” he said calmly, trying not to sound standoffish.

Roger chuckled. “Ever the scientist, aren’t you, Mr. May? Close your eyes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Close your eyes, Mr. May, and trust me.”

Brian shivered, but did as Roger asked.

“That’s it...,” Roger whispered, and the raspy voice dug straight in Brian’s core, “... that’s it,” he repeated and stepped closer. Close, way too close... He took Brian’s hand and placed his palm over his own heart. Brian felt the steady beat and the notion of his hand moving with Roger’s breathing. It was getting quicker.

“Feel it,” Roger urged him and placed his own hand over Brian’s heart, “hear it...” he was so close now there was barely an inch of space between the men. Brian could only sense him, eyes firmly shut. He started to understand what Roger meant – both heartbeats, and all their breaths, all was coiled together, creating something deep, unique and intimate. Brian never listened to anyone like that, he never had been listened to like that... He felt his senses twenty times sharper, taking in all of Roger, a presence so powerful, so overwhelming, so irresistible...  
His arousal hadn’t hit him unexpectedly, but it built slowly and steadily without him even being involved, so much of his attention got consumed by feeling Roger. Before Brian knew it, his shirt was sticky with sweat, a cool layer on a body which got all awake, desirous, hot and bothered. Roger’s heart sped up, breathing as well, faster and heavier, and Brian knew his wasn’t any better.  
And then... Roger closed the gap between them.  
Brian let out a soft moan when Roger’s body pressed itself on his, already burning and sensitive, and he would’ve been ashamed... but Roger replied with a soft “ah” of his own. Brian buried his face into the impossibly soft blond hair. He could smell cologne, fresh clothes, men’s soap, the faintest hint of tobacco and something warm and sweet he couldn’t identify, but it drove him crazy. God, this felt good... so good... Roger...  
His mind went completely blank. None of the men could say anything, even if they wanted, standing on the terrace, grinding against one another, creating their own fragile music, slowly and carefully, a sweet torture for both.

Suddenly Roger’s full arousal rubbed firmly against Brian’s thigh. Brian let out a loud gasp, and jerked back in panic, breaking the spell.  
“No!”

Roger opened his eyes, standing alone, burning and shivering. “Mr. May...,” he whispered.

Brian shook his head frantically. “No, no, I... can’t, we can’t, we can’t!”

There was a long silence. Roger didn’t look at Brian but stared somewhere over the marshlands and further. This was it, Brian thought, this was the moment. This was what his employer asked from him. And he denied, as possibly the ones before him. Now he must leave as well. It’s over.

“Do you want me...,” Brian whispered heavily, “... do you want me to go and pack my things?”

Roger slowly looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You will... dismiss me, won’t you? Because of what I...”

“No,” Roger gasped and stepped closer to Brian, who made a step back to keep the distance, “I wouldn’t, I’d never... It’s me who should apologise.”

“Apologise, Mr. Taylor?” Brian was confused.

“Yes, I shouldn’t have done that,” Roger whispered, “to you... to myself... God, I’m so sorry, for everything, so sorry, Mr. May...”

And without any explanation Roger ran off back to the house, his dressing gown sweeping the floor behind him.

Brian just stood there, slowly cooling down. The wind, so silent just a minute before, blew coldly and sharply from the marshlands, bringing a smell of stale water and putrefaction. All the darkness and silence, which felt magical in Roger’s presence, was now somehow alien and ominous. He felt his insides shrinking, as if filled with hard cold lead. As if the darkness was alive... alive and coming for him... Brian tried to breathe and rationalize, as he always did. Darkness, right, it’s just a lack of light, nothing to fear. Wind, that’s just a movement of air, air everywhere. There was one thing he couldn’t explain though... a soft melody echoing around... desperate and longing voice... calling...  
Quickly, Brian turned back, stormed off the terrace, and ran, until he could hide in the safety of his room. He noticed a key in his lock and used it.  
In short time he changed into his nightdress and hiding under a blanket, he hoped to fall asleep quickly.

After the last night, all the squeaks and cracks of the house felt familiar to Brian, yet unsurprisingly, he couldn’t calm down. All the food and warm milk he got in the kitchen made him incredibly drowsy, but his body felt awake, agitated and ready to run. The contrast created an uncomfortable and unsettling state.

One sheep... two sheep... creaks of the roof... three sheep... four sheep... squeak of the floor. He also thought he heard some fumbling going on downstairs, but everything  
sounded so quiet and vague, it could’ve been just a product of his overactive imagination.

Brian watched shadows dancing on the walls. Why were they moving? Is somebody here?

He sat up, startled. No, nothing. He was alone. All alone.

Really, I need to sleep, Brian decided and closed his eye resolutely. There. I will just lie here like this until I fall asleep. Simple.

Not so simple.

Brian ended up tossing and turning in the bed, desperate to find the right position. The soft sheets kept sliding gently over his body, reminding of Roger’s touch. No, no, no, he can’t think about that. He couldn’t think about that... so he did. The moments of connection, closeness and intimacy... he never felt anything like it, such a strong, fateful pull, impossible to resist. What would happen if he hadn’t said “no”? Was it yes... would Roger keep touching him? Would Roger kiss him? Those soft, sinful lips on his, all the fondling and tasting...  
Brian moaned at the thought and reached down to his cock. Perhaps this could help him sleep, take the edge off his agitation. It wasn’t the first and won’t be the last of these guilty private night time sessions.  
He palmed his cock again, properly this time, and found it fuller and harder than he expected. If a mere thought of Roger was able to do that much... oh, God... he stroked himself softly, thinking of the first time he’d seen the beauty, in the library. All soaked and wet from the rain, cheeks red from the exertion. And the long, intense stare... Brian’s hand on his cock kept moving, getting faster and faster... How would it feel if he just ripped that riding suit right off the blond, pushed him hard against the bookshelves, helpless, needy, moaning and desperate to soothe the fire burning in him...

“Oh, Roger...” he gasped. He was close, so close, and kept going. “Roger, Roger, Roger... ah...”

_“Well, well, dear.”_

Brian opened his eyes with a shriek, startled to death.

But... he was alone, and the room looked as it did few minutes ago.  
His heart was pounding so hard he felt it in his throat. Did he really hear that voice? Was somebody here? With him? Hiding? Brian got out of bed and lit a candle. With his unsteady hands it took several tries.

Not a soul. The room was empty.

“I’m getting mad,” Brian whispered shakily, his arousal positively killed by the shock, “I’m hearing things, getting mad and...”

Suddenly, he stopped, because he heard it. The same melody as outside... it was here, once again.

It’s in the house!

Brian quickly decided that he’d go insane if he stayed in the room for one more minute, so he slipped into his dressing gown and took a candle. He will figure out what’s behind this.

Breathing deeply, in and out, he opened his door – and heard the music clearly, though quietly, echoing through the corridors as if coming from everywhere and nowhere.  
Sweet, longing melody, full of sadness and regret...

_Love of my life, you've hurt me_  
_You've broken my heart and now you leave me_  
_Love of my life, can't you see?_  
_Bring it back, bring it back_  
_Don't take it away from me, because you don't know_  
_What it means to me..._

All the tiny hairs on Brian’s neck were standing as he walked quietly down the stairs. The voice... the voice was nothing like any other he’d ever heard before, as if not from this world. And the piano...  
Library, the rational part of Brian’s brain suggested, that’s the only room with a piano.

Suddenly, a wind howled and put out Brian’s candle. Darkness spread around him. Doesn’t matter. Brian swallowed and proceeded, determined to catch that late bird and find an explanation to all this.

_Love of my life, don't leave me_  
_You've stolen my love, you now desert me_  
_Love of my life, can't you see?_  
_Bring it back, bring it back_  
_Don't take it away from me_  
_Because you don't know_  
_What it means to me..._

In front of the closed library door, Brian hesitated. He was cold, shaky and nauseous, the familiar feeling of wrongness and anxiety creeping onto him again, stronger than ever. His feet were heavy and glued to the floor. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe...

The big clock in the hall kept ticking, not even slightly in rhythm with the aethereal music, which was honestly quite irritating.

You can do this, Brian, you can do this. He didn’t want to. Open the damn door, Brian, you coward, open the door!

_You will remember_  
_When this is blown over_  
_Everything's all by the way_  
_When I grow older_  
_I will be there at your side to remind you_  
_How I still love you, I still love you..._

Three... two... one... Brian flung the door open.  
The air in the dark library was cold and dry, shadows created by moonlight decorating the walls. And at the piano... there was someone, playing and singing in that heavenly voice.

Brian froze at the sight.

The pianist’s silhouette was completely transparent, barely there. No colours, just soft white, grey and silver. See-through hands moved expertly over the white and black keys. He was young, dressed in old fashioned clothes and his hair, now milky, used to be dark once. He was beautiful... and very much dead.

_Oh, hurry back, hurry back_  
_Don't take it away from me_  
_Because you don't know what it means to me_  
_Love of my life..._  
_Love of my life..._

Suddenly the singer stopped and turned around to look at Brian. They stared at each other silently. There was pain in the ghost’s expression, but also serenity and a whirlwind of other emotions Brian couldn’t decipher.

The ghost smiled. _“Welcome, darling.”_

Brian screamed. And screamed and screamed and couldn’t stop, as the dread kept letting itself out, not asking for permission.  
He didn’t even know how he stumbled out of the library and ran up the stairs, but he ended up banging on Roger’s door.

“Mr. Taylor!” he shrieked hysterically. “Mr. Taylor, wake up! Roger! Roger! ROGER!”

Further on the corridor, John’s door flung open and Roger ran out towards Brian. With his hair dishevelled and in a white flowy nightdress he looked nearly like a ghost himself.

“Mr. May!” Roger exclaimed, dragged Brian further from the door and hugged him tightly. Brian’s screams turned into loud sobs.

“Mr. Taylor, there... there... library...”

“Shhh, Brian, shh...,” Roger cooed, apparently confused and freaked out, but determined to deal with a current problem, which was a hysterical man in his arms. “All is well, Brian, shh... I’m here...”

Brian put himself together a bit and left the embrace.

“Mr. Taylor, did you hear the music?” he asked, still out of breath. “That music! There is a ghost! A ghost in the library, I saw it as I see you now, a ghost playing piano!”

  
Roger’s face went pale. “You saw Fr... ah... So, you say - you saw a ghost?” he asked carefully, biting his tongue.

Brian nodded. “There is a ghost in the library.”

“Forgive me, Mr. May, but... that’s unlikely.”

“I’m not lying!” Brian exclaimed. “I can show you!” And without further ado he grabbed Roger’s hand and dragged him downstairs.

The library was silent and empty. No music. No ghost.

Roger looked at Brian with concern. “How are you feeling, Mr. May? Please, talk to me.”

“I’m not lying, I swear,” Brian whispered, “and I’m not mad either. I’m so sorry, Mr. Taylor.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Roger assured him, “it was a long day for us both. You had a nightmare, that happens. I’m not angry at you.”

Yes, it had to be a nightmare... he fell asleep and had a nightmare...

Brian was shaking like a leaf and just the thought of going back to his room...  
“I don’t want to go up,” he peeped, feeling stupid.

Roger nodded. “Come with me.”

He took Brian’s hand and led him along the corridor, to his own bedroom, and lit all the candles he could reach, at least twenty.

“I can sleep in one of the guest rooms,” Roger said, “but I think you’ll feel better here. I had Deborah put some live coals into my bed earlier, so it should be nice and warm.”

“Mr. Taylor, I couldn’t possibly.”

Roger waved his hand. “Hush. I insist. Now be a good boy and get to bed.”

Brian noticed that even though it was a middle of a night and Roger was dressed for sleep, his bed still seemed neatly made and untouched.  
He drew the blanket aside and slipped in. After the shock and running up and down dark corridors, this was heaven. So soft... warm...  
Roger searched for something in his drawer before pulling out a small bottle.

“This is laudanum,” he explained, “my emergency stock for John, should he ever run out of it. I think you deserve few drops after this... ehm... event.” He smiled and sat at the edge of the mattress. “It’ll help you sleep. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure no one wakes you up in the morning. You need to rest.”

“You’re...,” Brian swallowed nervously, “you’re too good to me, Mr. Taylor. I’ve done nothing to deserve that.”

Roger didn’t answer, he only smiled softly and caressed Brian’s cheek.  
“You’ve been through enough, Brian,” he whispered, held the laudanum at Brian’s lips and watched his patient to take a sip.

The laudanum was bitter, and Brian gladly accepted a glass of water Roger offered him. Slowly, he started to feel even warmer, heavy and sleepy. Suddenly it was hard to keep his eyes open.

“I want you to see this as your home, Brian,” Roger continued, but his voice sounded strangely distant, “just sleep. I’m here. Don’t fight it. Just sleep now...”


	4. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

The following two weeks crept forward slowly, with a tension colouring the seemingly everyday life.

Brian tried to put the incident with the dead pianist behind, but all the events of that night just kept tiptoeing back, resulting in his never-ending shivers and nervousness. He lost count of how many cups he dropped, or how many times he jumped up when someone entered a room.

With Roger they made an unsaid agreement to keep everything from John, but somehow, Brian suspected, the old man found out anyway. Since the incident John seemed to be sinking into melancholy which made him even more absent. He rarely changed out of his nightdress and spent his days either in the bed or in his armchair, looking out pensively and refusing papers, books or any kind of entertainment.

All of this left a bitter taste on Brian’s tongue and made him think again and again what exactly happened that night.

What there a ghost? A real ghost? Logically speaking, it’s nonsense. There are no ghosts. Roger also claimed it was just a nightmare. It could as well be.  
And yet... Yet... Brian would give anything to have a reasonable conversation about it. But servants knew nothing, John was way too fragile, and Roger... Roger, despite all his sweetness and kindness, made abundantly clear he considered the whole event closed and finished.

“Come now, John,” Brian said softly, sitting at the edge of John’s bed, “you don’t have to eat everything, but at least a half of it? And then I leave you alone.” He moved the tray with John’s bowl of porridge and handed him the spoon he had dropped before. Brian refused to feed John just yet. The more the man can do by himself, the better, he thought. That’s what all the nursing books say. He had to admit though, this endless patient coaxing and waiting became very boring very soon.

John was staring at the spoon in his hand, then looked at Brian, as if he wasn’t sure it had truly been his carer who put it there.

“Here,” Brian offered, “I can hold the bowl. But if you think I’m taking the spoon from you, you’re mistaken.”

“Roger...?”

“Roger isn’t here just yet. It’s only you and me. I already had my lunch, so, now what about you?”

"Is it true?" John whispered. "You... you saw a ghost? Freddie?"

Brian's breath got stuck in his throat. He swallowed several times before answering.  
"Ehm, I... don't know. It could’ve been a dream. I’m sure it was a dream.”

John giggled. "A dream... he's always been a dream. Tell me about... the dream."

"I don't think I should," Brian watched worriedly how even this short conversation made John look even sicker and feverish. "You have to rest."

"You tell me," John negotiated, "and I eat your porridge."

"It's your porridge, not mine."

"Brian... please... before Roger comes back..." John wiggled and turned on his side to reach under the pillow. Brian leaned in curiously.  
The old man took out a small golden locket, caressed it with his thumb and handed it to Brian. It seemed to be a beautiful antique, rose gold, with very ornamental initials F.M. on the lid.

“Open it,” John whispered.

Brian did as the old man asked, revealing a miniature of a handsome young man with deep, dark eyes and raven hair.  
“That’s him!” he gasped in excitement. “That’s the ghost!”

“Freddie...,” John snatched the medallion back and his gaze seemed to be transfixed on the portrait. “Freddie...,” his breathing was getting harder and heavier in distress, “you saw Freddie...”

“John, you need to calm down now,” Brian insisted, silently panicking, “inhale, John, exhale... all is well, understand?”

“You must... tell me everything... What did he say? What did he do?”

“He said... ehm... he welcomed me here.” Brian watched John’s face carefully.

The old man swallowed several times, avoiding Brian’s stare. His hands seemed to shake even more than usual.

“So it’s time,” he mumbled, his voice shaking, “and I thought I could face it... that I could take it... be brave like Freddie, but... I can’t... and I have to...”

Brian anxiously watched how John covered his face with his hands, muffling quiet sobs.  
“What is going on, John?” he pushed softly, his nerves on edge. “Who is Freddie? What did he do?”

John ignored the questions, slowly shaking his head, breathing distressed and erratic.

“Roger?” he peeped.

“Roger isn’t here!”

“Put the locket back, he doesn’t like... that I have it.”

Brian did as John asked, closed the medallion and hid it under the pillow. “Why doesn’t he like it?” he asked, not really hoping for an answer.  
He knew he should try to calm the old man, make him rest, but his curiosity was stronger than that, and it seemed only emotions and distress opened the gates of John’s talkativeness.

Brian took his handkerchief and dried tears from John’s eyes. “Why, John? Tell me, please.”

“You tell me,” John grabbed Brian’s forearm tightly, “you and Roger... what did you do together? He won’t talk about it, but I need to know... did you-”

“What?” Brian gasped. “No! Never! No! No!”

The old man bitterly chuckled at the answer. “I know how you look at him,” he stated dryly while Brian felt treacherous heat flooding his face, “and he even wants you. He needs you... and he wants you as well. You see... you’ll have his buns for supper sooner than you think, silly Nancy boy.”

Brian drew himself back. “You should eat the porridge now,” he ordered coldly, “I believe that’s the deal. And be assured – I know my place.”

“I doubt it,” John mumbled, but took his spoon without further ado.

This time Brian sighed with relief when he finally left John’s room to bring his empty dishes to kitchen. The corridors looked somehow even gloomier than before, and the heavy grey sky behind the closed windows didn’t help.

Brian couldn’t help but shiver when he passed the library. Few steps later, he stopped. This can’t go on, he reprimanded himself. You can do this.  
Very hesitantly, he returned. Come on... Brian... come on... he coaxed himself while reaching for the door handle.

He did it, he entered, though his heart was still beating fast like a runaway rabbit, pumping an excessive amount of blood into his head, making it throb.

The library looked normal, abandoned and peaceful. Somebody, probably Roger, left a pile of books just lying on the ground together with a half-empty bottle of Irish whiskey.  
Brian frowned and decided it couldn’t hurt anyone if he just picked them up and at least put them on a table.

It was a peculiar collection. Brian was never a fan of spiritualism or occultism, but he was moving around London’s posh society long enough to know the basics of this fashionable new trend. On one occasion, his employer’s wife, otherwise very reasonable lady, decided to shave heads to her whole family only to have them all phrenologically tested. Brian quit once she started to turn her attention towards the staff.

There were several books by Allan Kardec, famous set called Spiritist Pentateuch, and his later works Qu'est-Ce Le Spiritisme? and Oeuvres Posthumes. Brian realized he had no idea if Roger spoke French – apparently, the answer was: Well enough to read complicated metaphysical doctrines. He quickly flew through several others – different authors, similar principle. Ghosts, spirits, mediums, death and afterlife. Surprising discovery was a Picture of Dorian Gray, and a thin volume by Edgar Allan Poe.

Brian curiously opened it.

“It was many and many a year ago,  
In a kingdom by the sea,  
That a maiden there lived whom you may know  
By the name of Annabel Lee;  
And this maiden she lived with no other thought  
Than to love and be loved by me.”

More verses followed and Brian couldn’t but wonder in what state of mind Roger found himself last night to create such collection.

“Mr. May?”

Brian gasped in shock and all the books and John’s dishes fell on the ground as he jumped out in a fright.

“Mr. Taylor!”

Roger frowned and raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I’m sorry I... didn’t mean to scare you.”

Brian exhaled softly and forced a smile. “Well, I’m easy to scare, it seems. Your steps are awfully quiet.”

“I’ll do my best to stump next time,” Roger chuckled. “And leave the mess here, Deborah was supposed to clean it up already. Now I want to show you something. I’ve got a present for you.”

Brian hesitated. “A present?”

“Come and see, Mr. May. Dear God, I really hope you’ll like it, come!”

He didn’t touch me, Brian realized as he followed Roger upstairs. He got quite used to Roger gently brushing his shoulder, taking his elbow, touching his side when passing each other in the hallway... nothing. Was it because of... Brian felt uncomfortable, remembering John’s lewd words about Roger. Who in their right mind speaks like that about their grandson? He kind of understood though. John, an old man with no other family but his grandson, would surely wait impatiently for said grandson to get married... have children... Yes, surely it was that. No one would be happy to see their offspring flirt with someone like me, Brian thought. Roger assured him this house was a safe place. A home even. Was it though? In the whole world, was there ever a place for the likes of him? With a side glance on Roger, Brian corrected himself... for the likes of us?

“I’d like to see you smile, Mr. May,” Roger said suddenly.

“As you wish, Mr. Taylor.”

Roger’s blue eyes kept measuring him. “Just because I’m asking you? I’m not interested in getting fake smiles.”

After a moment of silence, Brian decided to be honest for once. “Neither am I, and yet, you keep giving them to me. I know the ghost was real. And I know you know that too, you can say whatever you like. And I haven’t seen you genuinely happy since the incident. Something’s bothering you, Mr. Taylor. And I’m urging you, if there’s any way I can help.” Without even thinking, Brian reached for Roger’s hand and pressed it. “Please, tell me. What is going on here? Just tell me, so I can help.”

Roger looked at Brian, and at their hands linked together. “Now you’ve made me smile,” he said softly. “This is... a hard time, for everyone here. Would you just... stand by me, Mr. May? That’s all I ask. Can I rely on you? You’re a good man, true and loyal to your friends... Maybe soon, I’ll need someone by my side, I think you understand, and... good friends are scarce in places like this.”

“You’ll always have me, Mr. Taylor,” Brian nodded, “I promise.”

Roger exhaled shakily and Brian’s heart fluttered at the sound.

“Sometimes...,” Roger whispered, “... do you know that kind of moments when you doubt everything, Mr. May? Many times, now more than ever, I’m thinking about everything I’ve done... doing... and all the things I’m going to do. Life brings a great pain, Mr. May, and somehow... I fail to understand it. What is the point of trying to be happy when you know it won’t last and brings sorrow even greater than before?”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do!” Roger exclaimed. “I do, I do, I do!”

“Shhh,” Brian caressed Roger’s hand with his thumb, afraid to do some bigger gesture.

Blue gaze met Brian's eyes once more. “And yet...,” Roger whispered, “... I know and yet... I can’t help it. I know what should happen, I know what the right thing would be... but then I look at you, and I want...”

“You want... what?” Brian breathed out, blood pumping in his ears. Because he wanted, despite what he had told John, he wanted...

Instead of an answer Roger closed his eyes for a moment.

“I’m sorry for this outburst,” he said once he opened them. “Truly.”

“Wait, you said-”

“We still have that present for you, Mr. May,” Roger interrupted him and smiled, “it’s in my room. Please, come.”

Brian tried to supress the slight disappointment and followed Roger into his room.

“I was thinking about it a lot,” Roger admitted, “and I have to say I wasn’t sure I got your measures right, but my tailor is a very patient man, I have to say, every time I invite him here.”

Brian blinked in surprise. “My measures?”

Roger grinned. “Ta-dah!” He pointed on his bed.

“That’s...,” Brian gasped, “that’s... for me?”

On the bed, there was a brand new meticulously tailored outfit, with everything that belongs to it. Brian stared in awe. The frock coat seemed to be made of the softest wool, there was emerald green double-breasted vest, fashionable grey and black stripped trousers, silk tie, a pair of soft white shirts with cuffs and stiff detachable collars.

“Considering how fast I wanted it done, I have to say, he did a fine job,” Roger evaluated. “I was hesitant if I should get you a frock coat, the tailor said they were going out of fashion, but you’re so tall and lean, Mr. May, I just had to see you in one! Please, strip, strip, try it on!”

“Mr. Taylor...,” Brian whispered, feeling like Alice in Wonderland, “I can’t possibly accept that!”

Roger frowned. “Well, I can’t wear it. And as it’s already paid for, you’d make me just throw it away. Don’t be silly, Mr. May, try it on! Take it as a birthday gift.”

“My birthday is nineteenth of July!” Brian protested.

“And?”

“It’s September!”

“A belated gift then,” Roger replied. “Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Mr. May, try it on! You’re a piece of work, I tell you.”

Brian felt like in a dream, and a surreal one, when he hesitantly started to undress in front of Roger, who made no effort to avert his gaze.

“... Next time, I need to buy new underwear as well,” Roger muttered, when Brian got to the innermost layer.

Brian blushed deep red. “Mr. Taylor...”

“Never mind. Shirt off, Mr. May.”

Brian bit his lip and started unbuttoning. Soon, he stripped the second-hand, way-too-many-times-washed shirt he had been wearing and reached for the new one, when Roger stopped him.

“I have to say, you look nice,” he complimented him with a smile. “Much healthier than when you came.”

Brian swallowed, feeling a bit uncomfortable. The truth was, yes, since he had been eating four proper meals per day, he had filled out a bit – meaning that now he looked like a healthy man in his twenties, not a weary forty-something ready to die of consumption, all the bones visible to the naked eye. He wasn’t used to it, however, and it made him self-conscious.

Once again, he tried to cover himself with a shirt, but Roger had none of it.

“Wait, Mr. May, just another minute.”

“Mr. Taylor... please,” Brian peeped, as his own insecurity and Roger’s direct stare made him scarlet, “please, let me dress.”

Roger looked him in the eyes inquisitively. Then nodded. “Get dressed, Mr. May.”

Brian put the shirt on hastily, then trousers and waistcoat. Roger insisted on helping him with the collar, tie and cuffs, lending him his own cufflinks.

When he looked into the mirror, Brian swallowed, staring at the reflection. Everything fit perfectly, all new and shiny, creating an image of elegance and luxury. Suddenly, he looked like a gentleman – the kind Brian often watched in London. The kind having houses on Park Lane, shopping at Harrods, spending nights at the opera or at the Queen’s Club, having appointments with doctors at Harley Street.

He couldn’t but smile widely. He looked good. And it felt good.

“Aren’t you just beautiful, Mr. May?” Roger whispered with a charmed smile. “You shine like a new penny.”

“Why are you doing this, Mr. Taylor?” Brian couldn’t but ask.

“I have my quirks,” Roger grinned. “And I like nice things around me. You’re my Galatea, Mr. May, a work of art. Or maybe... I just want to make you happy. Trinkets are the easiest way.”

“This is way more than a trinket,” Brian protested.

Roger didn’t answer. Instead, he turned away to take a single red rose out of a bouquet on his bedside table.

“How well do you know Shakespeare, Mr. May?”

“Somewhat,” Brian replied carefully.

The young blond smiled faintly, when he recited:

“O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem  
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.  
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem  
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.”

Brian’s cheeks heated up. “That’s... one of Shakespeare’s sonnets?”

“It’s a first quatrain of the Sonnet 54,” Roger nodded, “one of those which are addressed to the Fair Youth, if you feel like searching for metaphors. He compares a scented rose and a canker bloom. They’re both still beautiful, but the latter has no smell, no essence, and its beauty is only for the show, as it’s dying inside. The rose, on the other hand, Mr. May... smell it.”

Their hands brushed against each other when Brian hesitantly took the flower. The bloom, big and darkly red, smelled sweetly.

“That’s the beauty hidden from the first glance,” Roger’s blue eyes met Brian’s once again. “You’re just such a kind of rare flower, Mr. May. The first sight captivated me, but the more I got to know what’s hidden underneath... you intoxicate me. Just like the rose.”

Brian turned his eyes from Roger and made a little step back, out of reach.

“I think you’re very lonely, Mr. Taylor,” he said quietly. “No wonder every flower comes to you as an intoxicating rose.”

“Do you doubt me?”

“I just said so, Mr. Taylor, I do.” Brian hesitated some more before adding: “Please, do not understand me wrong, I carry a great respect and admiration for you. Since I arrived, you showed me nothing but kindness and friendship, but...”

Roger looked at him silently. “I understand. I never meant for you to feel pressured. Your respect and admiration are more than enough, Mr. May, don’t be mistaken, and I value it greatly.”

“This suit-”

“Don’t you dare to take it off,” Roger warned him with a soft laugh, “I had my selfish reasons for giving it, I admit.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Because you like nice things?”

“Because I need you to go to Norwich.”

He didn’t expect that. “Norwich?” Brian asked sharply. “You’re sending me away? To Norwich?”

“Yes, Norwich,” Roger nodded. “The last time I’ve been there, quite a pleasant city. And the only city in Norfolk, actually.”

Roger walked across the room and started rummaging in his bedside drawer full of papers.

Brian followed him. “Why should I go to Norwich?”

“Well, firstly,” Roger kept searching in the mess of documents, “it’s a nice place and you need to get out of this house, at least for few days. Don’t you think I haven’t noticed how twitchy you’ve become since the... night time incident.”

Brian wasn’t sure if Roger had meant their terrace session or the ghost apparition but decided not to ask.

“And secondly, oh, here it is,” Roger grabbed several documents and turned back to Brian, “secondly, I need you to visit our family’s lawyer, James Beach. I have documents he needs to approve and sign. Also, some instructions about my businesses. Here, the letters. And here... that’s for you, a letter of attorney, so you’re legally able to manage our affairs. Any questions?”

Brian took some time before answering. Not that he minded having a trip, but... “Mr. Taylor, it’s your lawyer, your businesses and your affairs, I-”

“If you say ‘I couldn’t possibly’ Mr. May, I swear to God I’ll go feral,” Roger interrupted him. “And it must be you. I can’t leave this house. I can’t leave John.”

“I’m his carer,” Brian protested, “if there’s someone who shouldn’t leave his side-”

“Mr. May,” Roger said sharply, “what I said was a given, not a topic for discussion. Tomorrow, you’ll take the first morning train to Norwich. Beach’s address is written on the letters I gave you. He’ll be expecting you. You give him my documents and you sign what needs to be signed. Then you take two days off to see all the places of interest there are, get drunk in some pub, have a good night sleep, and buy yourself something nice. I expect you back by Thursday. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Taylor.”

“Here,” Roger handed him several coins, “pocket money for your little holiday.”

“Mr. Taylor!” Brian gasped. “That’s five guineas! That’s... that’s too much! Way too much!”

Roger sighed. “Well, you’ll need to eat something, don’t you think?”

“I don’t need to buy the whole cattle market!” Brian protested.

“You’ll need to sleep somewhere.”

“Not in the castle!”

“Indeed,” Roger nodded. “But I heard The Maid’s Head is a nice place.”

“Mr. Taylor, I’m serious!”

“Mr. May, so am I,” Roger folded his arms, “and you talk too much. Because though I carry a great respect and admiration for you as well, there’s one demand I won’t withdraw – do as I say, take what I give, and accept when ask you not to worry.”

Brian tilted his head. “I doubt you want that, Mr. Taylor. I came here as a servant, you pay me to look after your grandfather. Nothing else should to be paid for.”

“I’m not bribing you. Nor buying you, Mr. May. I expect your thick hairy head to stand in the way whenever I’d even try to do so. You have annoying morals.”

“That’s why you like me, remember?” Brian smiled.

Roger’s eyes sparkled, when he replied cheekily: “Maybe you can get me something nice and sparkly in Norwich, to reduce the weight on your conscience – and your wallet.”

“Will do, Mr. Taylor.”

“And maybe...,” Roger hesitated, “... if you happen to be around the cathedral... light a candle for me.”

Brian nodded. “As you wish.”


	5. Light me a candle

It was an early morning, when Roger, after spending another night in the library, trudged upstairs to help John with the morning routine.

He was tired. Tired, and his whole body ached. Is it possible to miss person so quickly? Apparently, it is. He missed Brian.

He sighed, and guilt flooded his body like a bitter bile.  
I shouldn’t have told him to come back, he thought wearily, I should’ve told him to get out... far away from here... Why did you do this to me, Freddie? I know you didn’t mean to... but sometimes I wonder, who got the worse part of the deal.

Suddenly, Roger caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. The spotless porcelain skin, the healthy golden hair, sparkling youthful eyes... He watched himself... and the guilt slowly disappeared to be replaced by hatred.

And yet... why don’t I stop, he thought, it would be so so easy... Fruitless thinking. A loop in his head, created a long time ago ran over and over to get to the same realization.  
I’ll never stop.

Brian... Sweet, sweet, clueless Brian... Why do I never stop?

Roger opened John’s door, surprised to find him already awake.  
“Morning bird, are we?”

John pushed himself up on the bed, slowly. Soft, pained sound escaped his lips.

Roger honestly couldn’t remember when it was, the time John moved freely and without pain. So fragile he became... Roger’s throat tightened... so gaunt, so weary and feeble... When did this even happen? Oh, John...

He supressed these unwelcome thoughts and joined the old man on the bed with a smile.

“Would you mind moving a bit?” he grinned teasingly. “My arse might be delicate and small, but not that small.”

John giggled and tried to push himself closer to the edge.

“Careful, don’t-“

“Fall down?” John grumbled. “I’m not made of porcelain, you know.”

“But of course, you are, my dear,” Roger smiled and lay down next to him, “you’ve always been. Little sweet porcelain doll. Nothing changed.”

The mattress creaked softly.

  
“Bastard,” John sighed. “And come here, closer.”

Roger obliged and hugged John around his shoulders. “Here, lean against me,” the blond whispered, “you can sleep, if you want to. I won’t go away and you look tired.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” John sighed and took Roger’s hand. “Too much thinking...”

Roger shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t have to worry about anything, John, you know that.”

“Don’t I? Is he gone?”

“Yes, I’ve sent him to Norwich with all the documents.”

John sighed again and laid his head on Roger’s shoulder, even though his back screamed against the position. At least the pain would help to stay awake. He didn’t want to sleep, not just yet.

He swallowed heavily. “So you’ve made your decision, Roggie. It’s going to be him.”

“John, please,” Roger whispered, and his voice sounded broken, “please, don’t talk like that, please, don’t make me think of it, I can’t bear it...”

John didn’t trust his eyesight as much as he used to, but when he reached for the younger man’s face, his hand felt wet. So...  
“You can’t bear it,” John giggled bitterly, “you, you can’t bear it? And I’m just alright here, watching him day after day after day... knowing that you... you...”

“It was your idea,” Roger mumbled and looked away in shame.

John stayed silent for a while, and when he spoke, his voice sounded softer and kinder. “I know, Roggie, I know...” he whispered, “but that doesn’t have to mean I like it.”

“One word from you, John, and I swear-”

“Don’t swear,” John stopped him and squeezed his hand a bit more, “firstly, I want you to go on-”

“John, I-”

“- and secondly,” John lowered his voice a bit, “even if I asked... you wouldn’t do it anyway. You’ve grown too fond of him. I just wish...”

Roger’s eyes widened. “Yes, John?”

Silly wish. Stupid wish. Impossible wish. “I wish you’d look at me the way you used to.”

“I do, John,” Roger sat up. “My dear, dearest John... of course I do! I do and I always will. I swear it. No matter what.”

Around that time, the morning train just stopped at “Norwich – main train station” and Brian hopped out eagerly. The last time he’d been in Norwich, few weeks ago, he felt down, tired, poor, and hungry. How things have changed!

His new suit fit him perfectly, he felt elegant, handsome and high in spirits. In his lapel, there was a small pink rose he found on his bed-side table this morning along with a note:

“I miss you already. R.T.”

Brian was adamant in his stance when it came to Roger, at least he liked to think so, but he couldn’t but feel pleased and flattered.

Even the weather mirrored his mood, rays of sunshine piercing through the clouds, illuminating the cobblestones, all wet after the night’s rain. The tall towers of the cathedral rose above the tiled roofs, and all those colours! And people! And noise! It caused quite a shock after the quiet and remoteness of Rhye Hall, but not an unpleasant one.  
Brian opened a map. So... I need to go right... on the Thorpe Road and then left across the river... He studied the way in the train already, but now, in the middle of a crowded station, he needed to put everything into perspective.

Suddenly, a passer-by coming from the platform bumped into him so forcefully Brian nearly lost his balance. He made a reflexive step back, being ready to say sorry and run, but to his surprise, the large workman looked at him apologetically – with fear in his eyes even.

“I’m sorry, sir, please, forgive me.”

Brian looked at him dumbfounded. He was used to being pushed around or ignored, called names, in case people heard rumours, but... Oh, right, the suit. And the briefcase. He looked like a gentleman now, he almost forgot.

“There’s no need to apologise,” Brian smiled, “it was an accident.”

He wanted to say something more, but then he felt a soft tug on his coattail.

“Sir? Sir!”

Brian quickly turned around, ready to defend his belongings against thieves. A small, scrawny boy was looking at him with an excited eagerness.

“Eh... can I help you?” Brian asked unsurely. He never really got in touch with children that age and wasn’t sure how to proceed.

The Oliver-Twist-lookalike bowed importantly. “I can see gentleman is a stranger to this fair city,” he started. He spoke like a book, though his Norfolk accent was so thick Brian had to focus to understand. After all, he was indeed “a strangah”.

“Yes... I’m from Hampton,” Brian said. “Look, what do you-”

“I know the whole city like a palm of my hand. If you wish, dear sir, I could take you anywhere. Would you like me to show you a way?”

“Yes, actually,” Brian conceded. “I need to get to the Castle Meadow. There’s a lawyer’s office.”

“Oh, you’re going to see a lawyer?” the boy seemed impressed. “He’s reeeeally rich. You’re doing money business, sir, aren’t you? Of course, I can show you, it’s not far. How much will you pay me?”

“Ehm... a sixpence?” Brian wasn’t sure about the tipping standards when it came to street boys.

The boy’s eyes lit. “A sixpence? Yes, please, sir, follow me. I can take you even further, if you like. All over the city!”

Brian laughed. ”Castle Meadow will be quite enough. Lead the way.”

As the boy promised, it wasn’t far, not even a fifteen-minute walk. Castle Meadow turned out to be a large but tidy street, one of the richest in Norwich, apparently. All the houses there were at least two-floor’s high, made of solid stone and finely painted.

“Here it is,” the boy pointed on the door adorned with a bronze sign: JAMES BEACH, LAWYER

Brian gave him the promised sixpence and the boy ran away, as if afraid the rich gentleman would change his mind.  
So... here we go.

James Beach saw him immediately. His office made the same impression as his house – an image of stable and reliable luxury.

“So, you’ve come from Rhye Hall,” the lawyer smiled and gestured towards an empty leather chair in front of his desk, “please, sit, Mr. May. I can’t wait to hear what you bring me.”

Brian swallowed a bit nervously. “Here... my letter of attorney,” he slid the paper over the desk towards Beach who studied it carefully.

“Legitimate enough,” he smiled at last and put the letter aside, “it seems Mr. Deacon trusts you a great deal.”

“I’m sorry?” Brian was confused.

“I mean, it’s not every day John Deacon entrusts his property in hands of a stranger,” Beach specified. “Would you like some tea before we start?”

“No, thank you.” He felt a bit stupid now, as he realized, he had never known John’s surname. He just assumed it was Taylor, but how... oh, of course. He must be Roger’s grandfather from his mother’s side. Yes, that makes complete sense, Brian convinced himself. Complete sense.

James Beach smiled. “I agree, work first, pleasure later. Let’s get to it, shall we?”

He took a stack of documents Brian handed him and listed through them, quietly mumbling from time to time.  
Brian slowly relaxed. It wasn’t even that bad as he feared. Roger seemed to add an exhaustive description of what should and needed to be done, so Brian’s only job was to sign where Beach showed him to.

“So... you represent Mr. Deacon for a long time?” he asked quietly.

Beach kept reading the documents, when he answered. “Yes, of course, for the last... oh, my, thirty years!” he laughed softly. “Since I opened my office here in Norwich in 1870. I’m taking care of his investments on a stock market and of all the legal matters concerning Rhye Hall. It’s a fine piece of property, isn’t it?”

Brian nodded. “Indeed.”

“It’s a pleasure to manage his affairs,” Beach continued, while he opened his drawer, took out a blank paper and started writing something in a neat, legible handwriting, “and he holds everything firmly in his hands. He wouldn’t even need me if he didn’t insist on being such a recluse. I saw him only once, when we started our cooperation. Interesting man... with his looks and money, he should live a little and find a wife. It’s high time for him to get married now. Get himself a blood related inheritor.”

Brian wasn’t sure what the lawyer was talking about, but honestly, no offence, John stepped over the “high time to get married” quite a few years ago. And were he able to consummate a marriage, well, Brian wasn’t the one to underestimate people, but he’d be very impressed if that happened.

“He still has a grandson,” Brian reminded, “that should suffice.”

James Beach looked up from his papers in surprise. “Has he? A legitimate one?”

Brian frowned. “They never mentioned otherwise,” he said hesitantly, “but I’m working there just for few weeks. I don’t know.”

Could Roger be illegitimate? But... that’s unlikely. Even though, it could explain the reluctance to talk about their family. Yes... that made sense? Brian decided it did make perfect sense.  
Suddenly he realized the lawyer was talking.

“... so you just sign it here,” he pointed to a dotted line. Brian signed. “And that would be all. It was pleasure to meet you, Mr. May. You can tell Mr. Deacon everything will be done exactly as he wishes, and I’ll send him the accounts he requested during the next week.”

Brian got up and shook Beach’s hand. “Thank you, sir. Good bye.”

“Good bye, Mr. May.”

Brian got on the street and waved for a cab to take him to Maid’s Head where he intended to stay for the night. He wanted to think everything was fine, he really, really did, but there was an annoying worm, biting and nagging in his brain refusing to get quiet.  
John once said it would be better for Brian, were he stupid. He wholeheartedly agreed now. That way he could easily just accept everything and enjoy a beautiful day, but... but...  
He sighed, his scientific and logical mind screaming, demanding facts, proofs, and reliable sources. The Rhye Hall and its owners became a mystery he could no longer leave unsolved.

He knocked at the ceiling of the fiacre.

“Hey! Is there an archive somewhere in Norwich?”

“Yeah!” the coachman answered immediately. “Martineau Lane, sir! Do you want me to-”

“Yes, please. Take me there.”

Brian wasn’t sure what he expected to find, or what it promised, but... that didn’t really matter. After all, his orders were clear – solve businesses with James Beach and then enjoy yourself. He decided to count this little detective work into the latter category. And this was a public archive and library, after all. So... it wasn’t anything like... invading Roger’s privacy, was it? Surely a little peep won’t hurt.

The air of the library calmed him down immediately. You could be anywhere in the world, but once you enter a library, everything’s the same.  
Large bookshelves, heavy tables, quiet people. And the smell of old paper... Brian inhaled it with pleasure. Yes, this was his ground.

He wandered around for a while before he finally approached the loan desk.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” he asked, “but there are some things I need to find in the archive, and I don’t think I can do that on my own.”

The librarian looked over Brian’s expensive suit and overall demeanour and seemed satisfied. “Of course, sir, how can I help you?”

“There are certain old documents. It concerns an estate near Blakeney called Rhye Hall.”

“Rhye Hall...,” the librarian frowned, “... Rhye Hall... I’d have to look back. It might take a while. Is there anything specific...?”

“Anything you have,” Brian assured him. “Land contracts, family records, former owners... any strange events. Anything.”

The man nodded. “Right away, sir.” He turned around and waved his hand on a tall, lanky boy carrying a pile of books. “Hey, George! Look after this gentleman while I’m gone!”

After he disappeared, Brian realized just how much assistant George took his work seriously, when the young man slipped behind the loan desk, and started a conversation immediately.

“So... I suppose you’re not from Norwich, sir,” he stated.

Brian nodded. “I’m from Hampton.”

“Oh, London!” It seemed even his origins added Brian on respectability. “Have you ever seen Her Majesty, sir?”

Typical, Brian thought in amusement, it seems there’s still the impression that all the Londoners must know her directly, talk to her and kiss her hands several times a week.

“She’s very old,” the assistant continued, “they say the crown prince is losing patience.”

Brian said nothing, but the librarian didn’t seem to mind.

“The last gentleman of your kind arrived from Newcastle,” young George fluently changed a topic completely, “he spent ages here in the library. Then he tried to track the Yow Yows and the Ghost Fiddler, but... he drowned in the marsh, it rained a lot that day.”

“Oh...,” Brian nodded sympathetically before asking: “What do you mean by gentleman of my kind?”

Young George looked confused. “Well... you’re a ghost spotter, aren’t you? That’s why rich strangers like you come to Norfolk. To see ghosts and fairies.”

Some of them would rather not to, Brian thought, but didn’t feel the need to share his experience.

“Do they?”

“Oh, yes, sir, this is a very old land. And the marshes...”

“... took many lives,” Brian nodded. “I know... a friend already told me, the first night I came. He said boundaries dividing the living and the dead got blurred.”

“Exactly, sir. You friend must be a real expert on the subject, just like old Rupert.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Our senior librarian,” George explained. “All the ghost spotters want to talk to him. He knows everything.”

Ghost spotter or not, this seemed to be worth a shot. “Could I talk to him as well?”

Young George was an embodiment of helpfulness, so not even fifteen minutes later Brian sat in a remote corner of the library with a very old, overweight man, who luckily didn’t seem to mind telling about ghosts to yet another nosy stranger.

“Ghosts, spirits and phantoms...,” old Rupert sighed, “nasty bastards, I tell you, most of them.”

Brian leaned forward. “So you do believe they exist? Have you seen one?”

Rupert chuckled. “Heavens, no. But if you care to read a book, young man, you’ll discover that the very concept of ghosts is the same for over a thousand years, maybe even more! Nothing remains the same for that long, unless... it has something real behind it, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose...,” Brian mumbled and sat back. “So, very theoretically, let’s say they’re real... what are they? Why are they here? Why do people see them?”

“Well...,” old Rupert gave it a thought, “some people say no dead leave the Earth unless there are no people to remember them. Others say ghosts stay when there is some strong pull dragging them back. Most often it’s hatred – that’s how we can see vengeful spirits of those who were wronged or who hated so intensely they took it into the afterlife. It can be an unfinished business. It can be love. It can be all of that. Lots of baggage. I recommend to your attention “Of Ghosts and Spirits Walking By Night” by Ludwig Lavater.”

Brian slowly nodded and frowned a little. “You’re saying ghosts would stay for love?”

“Why not?” Rupert chuckled. “If they think their loved ones still need them. Scary thought, isn’t it? I can’t imagine my wife watching over me from beyond the same way as she does now!”

Brian laughed shortly out of social obligation before he asked: “Would you say you know about all the ghosts in Norfolk?”

Old Rupert beamed a bit cockily. “I know about the ones worth knowing about, that’s for sure. Which one is it that captured your attention, young man? The She Wolf of Castle Rising? The Screaming Cockler of Stiffkey? The Poltergeist of Sandringham?”

“The Singer of Rhye Hall?” Brian supplied readily.

The old librarian hesitated. “No, I don’t know that one,” he admitted. “Are you sure there is something like that?”

“Quite sure,” Brian nodded. “He appeared in the library, plays a piano and sings. You wouldn’t know anything about that, by chance?”

“Hmm... Rhye Hall... Rhye Hall...,” Rupert frowned.

“A large country house. Few miles from Blackeney.”

Before Rupert could answer, a soft cough interrupted them. Brian turned around. The first librarian returned.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your debate, sir-”

“That’s quite alright,” Brian assured him, “I came here mostly for the documents after all.”

The man sighed. “Unfortunately, sir...”

“Yes?”

“I couldn’t find a single one!” the man sounded outraged. “Not a single piece of paper about Rhye Hall in the archive! I don’t understand how that happened, sir!”

Old Rupert snorted. “If you asked me, I’d save you the trouble. They took them away, many years ago. Now I remember. Rhye Hall, that was it.”

“Who took it? When?” Brian blurted out fervently.

“Ehm... some twenty... oh, no, thirty years ago,” Rupert said, “my daughter just got married back then, so I know. Some man asked for them and then never returned.”

“What man?”

“He didn’t say a name. Nearly a boy. Quite handsome, skinny, brown hair, and when he smiled, you could see a gap between his front teeth. I remember that face clearly. He seemed quite bothered by something.”

Brian shrugged. “Aren’t we all. Did he say why he needed the documents?”

“Not a word. Honestly, the Taylors used to be an esteemed, respectable family, but when the young Mercury got the estate, then it started to go strange.”

“So it doesn’t belong to the Taylors? Or John Deacon? Who is Mercury?” Now Brian looked utterly confused.

Old Rupert chuckled, apparently pleased by such an eager listener. “My dear boy, the Taylors owned the house for more than one hundred years. The last one, Michael Taylor, died in 1845. His only son already dead, so Taylor left everything to his protégé, Frederick Mercury. And the man closed the place from public completely and himself in it. Such a shame.”

Brian’s heart was beating rapidly. Could that be it? Frederick? Freddie?

“He died as well,” Brian mentioned, “I mean Mercury. He doesn’t own the estate now.”

Rupert shrugged. “We’d know that, of course, if some people here,” he glared at the younger man, “took better care of our papers. We can’t help you, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve helped a lot,” Brian assured him. “Have a good day, gentlemen.”

He bowed softly and left the library.

Brian quickly walked out on the street and just blindly chose a way to go. He was beyond confused. What was he missing? With every new fact, every new person he talked to, everything looked even more muddled than before. Who were they? What was happening? If Taylor family truly died out more than fifty years ago, then, who was Roger? Illegitimate grandson? And who was John, and how did he get to own Rhye Hall in the first place? Who was Freddie Mercury and how did he die?

Too many questions...

Brian sighed, his head started to hurt. He slowly walked through the Elm Hill, one of the oldest streets he’d seen so far. One thing was clear – nobody would take documents from the archives if there was nothing to see. There must have been something. And Rhye Hall seemed to be the only place where he could search for answers, whether John and Roger liked it or not.

Gently, he touched the pink rose in his lapel again.

I miss you already, R.T.

Yes, I miss you too, Brian realized. Already. He’d give anything for Roger to be by his side right now, beautiful, clever and trustworthy. They would be solving mysteries together. Roger seemed to be all entangled into this mess though. Was he to be trusted? But... why shouldn’t he? Why would he lie? What terrible things could he possibly do?  
No, Brian couldn’t imagine anything dark to be hidden behind the ray of sunshine that Roger was. There can still be an innocent explanation for everything.

Roger...

Every time Brian’s thoughts got to Roger, he felt a warmth and gentle excitement, dopey smile possibly ingrained into his face indefinitely. Surely there’s nothing wrong with him. Brian had to admit, he had never met anyone quite so elegant, so literate, gentle and exquisite. Not anyone ever made him smile without even trying, without even being here... Oh, Roger... Roger will surely tell him if Brian proves trustworthy, won’t he? All his secrets. All about Rhye Hall. There’s no need to be afraid, after all, Roger’s there.

The tall, intimidating tower of the cathedral dedicated to Holy and Undivided Trinity almost threatened to pierce the sky, at least that was how it looked like from Brian’s point of view, when he got to it.

There was always something dark and impressive about gothic style, he thought, much fonder of that than of the Reinassance which, despite its great leap in thinking, science or inventions, couldn’t fight with its predecessor when it came to uniqueness of the architecture.

Remembering the last conversation he had with Roger, Brian entered the large space. It was cold and a bit fusty, as all the cathedrals, but the high ceiling and sharp columns rose a fear of God in all the visitors, Brian included.

He threw several coins in the donation box and took a candle for Roger, as he had promised. It took several tries to lit, the draught in the main nave haven’t made it easy for Brian.

Finally.

As an idea of the moment, Brian decided to ask the great problem-solver for guidance. After all, God might be just as useful as a lawyer or three librarians.

He lit another candle, for himself this time. The flame caught on the first try and blazed brightly.

Brian placed it next to Roger’s and turned to the main altar with a prayer he had learned many, many years ago.

“Almighty Lord and everlasting God,” he whispered,  
“we ask you to direct, sanctify and govern both our hearts and bodies  
in the ways of your laws and the works of your commandments,  
that through your most mighty protection, both here and ever,  
we may be preserved in body and soul,  
through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.”

And after a very short thought, he added:

“Sovereign God,  
the defence of those who trust in you  
and the strength of those who suffer:  
look with mercy on our affliction  
and deliver us through our mighty Saviour Jesus Christ.  
Amen.”

Brian held his breath. Rationally speaking, he didn’t expect anything to happen, no sudden roar of thunder or voice from above, yet... This place felt filled with an aethereal presence. Maybe his experience from recent days had something to do with it, but Brian found himself wishing desperately to believe... in God, in angels, in an immortal soul, he wasn’t sure.

The draught blew, stronger than before, putting out the weak, flickering light of Roger’s candle once again.

That tore Brian from his contemplations, and he frowned. One would think a cathedral would have candles of enough quality not to go out in the first minute. He took his own, which survived the wind’s sneaky attack, and used the fire to lit Roger’s again. That’s it.

Suddenly, Brian felt uncomfortable. Such a sneaky, unexplainable feeling...  
He shook, bowed shortly towards the altar and left. As he was closing the door, the wind from outside ran around him.

This time, none of the candles endured.

Roger made sure John was already asleep before he wrapped himself in a dressing gown and headed to the library. It was dark outside, midnight quickly approaching.

The fireplace stayed lit, as Roger ordered, and he snuggled in the chair next to it, with one of the books he had found earlier. The whiskey bottle also stayed where he had left it.  
He took a large gulp, not even bothering with glasses.

“I remember the time you drank this much,” he mumbled vaguely in the empty space. “You said it makes everything easier. It does... and it doesn’t, I suppose. So here’s the deal – you come to talk this night... or I might just finish this beauty.” He lifted the bottle and took a sip to emphasise his point. “Your choice.”

Silence. Nothing but a sound of cracking wood and soft noises of an empty house.

“Please...,” Roger begged, “please... why do you keep coming? I need to know! Please... is it to haunt me? Do you hate me? I need... Please... Love of my life, remember?”

He sobbed and in anger he threw the bottle into flames.

“Look what you’ve done to me!” he exclaimed tearily. “But it doesn’t matter to you, does it? Nothing matters. Nothing really matters. And you know I’ll carry on. I always will, but please...,” he lowered his voice again, tearing up softly, “... you must tell me... Why are you still here? I hoped you rest in peace, but... is a ghost the same as soul? Does it mean you’re unwell? Does it mean you can’t...,” Roger gulped, “can’t go to heaven? Did God reject you? Did he reject us? Are we damned? Please, tell me... I need to know...”


	6. Happy Homecomings

Brian’s heart fluttered with anticipation as the carriage jumped over potholes on the road to the Rhye Hall. The wheels rumbled and Mr. Hince’s frequent orders to horses sounded sharply through the air. 

Was the butler ordered to be fast? Brian could only wonder. If he were... then it wouldn’t take a genius to understand that a certain someone is looking forward to the reunion after days apart as much as he was. 

Brian ran his fingers over the wrapping paper of a small package he got in Norwich just yesterday. Something “nice and sparkly” for Roger, just as he promised. His insides twisted nervously. He didn’t have any experiences in buying anything fancy, so he’d spent hours over this task, creating an elaborate story about his absent sister’s fiancé’s birthday to get an assistance from the shopkeeper.

Oh, God, he hoped... Deep inside, he knew Roger would be happy and excited, but... even deeper inside... Was he silly to buy this to Roger? What if... he understood this all wrong and Roger didn’t want him to get anything? Will he laugh at him?

Quickly, Brian looked out of the window to escape these thoughts. The sky seemed once again prone to a heavy rain. The wind, which had played with leaves and the highest branches just a short while ago, ceased. It was the moment when everything gets quiet, animals hide in their nests, snuggled together. Even the flying insect lands, seeking refuge in the thick grass. Brian could almost taste the ominous heaviness around.

Quiet before the storm... he thought, subconsciously holding his breath... the last inhale... the fateful moment, small hesitation before the hell breaks loose, hitting everything and everyone who couldn’t take cover.

Brian closed his eyes and listened to the sound of hooves and wheels, expecting to feel the first raindrops hitting his face. No, not yet. The nature itself seemed to be anticipating,   
just like him. Longing and calling...

“Mr. May!”

What? He snapped his eyes open. Right behind the brazen gate of the Rhye estate, there was Roger in his grey riding suit, on Romeo, waving fervently with a wide smile on his face.

“Mr. May!”

“Mr. Taylor!” Brian called in response and waved back. Warm happiness flooded over him. As if his good mood, well hidden until now, decided to make a return with all the fanfares, confetti and a parade. Brian beamed.

Mr. Hince stopped the carriage right behind the gate and Roger took no time, jumped down from the saddle, opened Brian’s door and reached his hand to help him out. Brian blushed at the gesture.

“Oh, my dear, dear Mr. May,” Roger blurted out, his eyes excited, “I’m so glad you’re back. I missed you!”

“Yes, I know, I... know,” Brian finished awkwardly, because just now he noticed a second horse standing next to Romeo, fully tacked up. Oh, no.

“Mr. Hince will be so good, and drives the carriage home,” Roger ordered loudly enough so the butler could hear him as well, “we’ll ride.” 

“Mr. Taylor...,” Brian bit his lip, “I... can’t ride. I never-“

“Oh, I thought so,” Roger smiled warmly. “That’s why I chose the Old Lady for you, the most special girl we have.”

Both men turned back to the horses, where Romeo kept himself busy by sniffing the mare’s wide backside. She took it philosophically, looking at her owner with a “seriously?” expression of her dark eyes.

“Idiot,” Roger was amused, “I can’t even remember the last time she’d been in heat, she has her years already. But... perhaps... horse knows.” He giggled at his own joke. “Maybe she’ll surprise us. Brian, meet Ruby.”

For a short second, Brian had a crazy thought of shaking hands with the horse, but then he settled for a hesitant pat on her reddish flank.

“Eh... hello, Ruby. Good girl.” Brian loved animals of all kinds, but he usually preferred them to be smaller than him.

“Come,” Roger smiled and held a stirrup for him, “your right foot here... that’s right... and hop on. Don’t touch the reins! Yes, you can grab the mane, it doesn’t hurt her... yes, yes... that’s it... and up, up, a little bit further, swing the leg, swing the leg! ... Great!”

Brian really wanted to do this gracefully, which wasn’t the case in the slightest, but with Roger’s help he got up there at least. Ruby stood completely calm, unphased by Brian’s shenanigans.

Roger adjusted the stirrups and mounted his Romeo with one fluent motion. “Shall we, Mr. May? Don’t worry, we’ll just walk. Leave the reins loose, Ruby knows what to do.”  
At least someone, Brian thought, when Roger gently clicked his tongue at Romeo, who moved immediately, followed by Ruby.

The sky was getting darker and a soft wind started to pick up. Brian worried they might not make it home in time, especially with his riding skills, but Roger didn’t seem overly worried.

“Relax in the saddle, Mr. May,” he smiled, “still leave the reins loose. The most important things when riding are your legs and your seat, not hands. You need to feel the connection.”

Brian tried, but Ruby’s powerful muscles moving smoothly under him would take some getting used to. 

“Balls of your feet in the stirrups, Mr. May, and heels down. You’ll be more stable. Ruby, hup,” Roger invited the horse to move a bit faster, so now they walked with Romeo side by side.

Brian slowly relaxed. This wasn’t that bad after all. He couldn’t but admire how the horses obeyed every soft-spoken command Roger had given them, though even that wouldn’t be necessary were he with Romeo only. It felt magical, like a work of an enchanter.

“So, how was Norwich, Mr. May?”

The magic was gone. Brian hesitated, not knowing how to answer. The heavy feeling of secrets and confusion came back to settle in his stomach.

“Ehm... good,” he said, averting his gaze to stare somewhere between Ruby’s ears.

Roger chuckled. “I can see you’re in a talkative mood,” he teased, “do you have all the documents I asked you for?”

“Yes, in the briefcase. In the carriage.”

“Hince will know what to do with them, thank you.”

“I... really enjoyed it,” Brian continued, figuring Roger probably expected more enthusiasm considering he paid for the trip, “and I’m glad I could do something for you.”

Roger smiled. “I’m happy to hear that. I wanted you to have a good time.”

“I did, Mr. Taylor. I hope everything here... How is John?”

“Ehm... John...,” Roger’s cheery mood seemed to darken a bit, “John... is complicated,” he sighed, “no, no trouble, we took care of him with Deborah just fine, but... it’s hard to watch, you know.”

Brian nodded.

“Sometimes I can talk to him the same way as before, and then suddenly he gets lost... and I can’t reach him. And he’s getting weaker, day by day, every time I recall how he used to be just a year or two back... I’m terrified I’ll lose him.”

Brian had no idea what to say unless he wanted to do impossible promises. Once again, he realized this wouldn’t be the first loss for Roger by far – with his parents gone, maybe other people as well, if John is truly his last living relative... His heart ached for him.

“Did he raise you?” Brian asked.

“What?”

“I mean... you seem so close to him.”

Roger nodded. “Oh, that... yes, he did.” He seemed to wander away in memories, smiling. “You should’ve known him before. I think you’d like each other. He always kept a lot to himself, I could never really guess what was on his mind unless he decided to tell me. Always patient with me... so caring, so lovely... and taking this all just so bloody well, I don’t understand how he does it-” 

Suddenly he looked back at Brian. 

“My apologies...” he seemed sorry he even said something. “I shouldn’t dwell on memories, I guess. The future is important, not the past.”

“Past makes us who we are,” Brian opposed, “it won’t go away, and it shouldn’t.”

Roger didn’t seem pleased by that answer but said nothing. For some time, the silence was interrupted only by the wind, snorting of the horses, and clinking of their saddlery.

“Mr. Beach also thinks highly of John,” Brian brought up carefully, trying to lead the conversation the way he wished. “But... it’s you who does all the accounts, isn’t it?”

“Just for the last... three or four years. Before that, we took turns.” 

“You must be good with numbers, helping out so young.”

Brian meant it as a compliment, so the sharp stare from Roger took him by surprise. Did he... did he say something wrong? How old can Roger be, twenty-two? Three?

“We should hurry home, Mr. May,” Roger said, suddenly aloof. “There’s a storm coming.”

The rain came shortly after they got home with an unexpected intensity. The sky darkened to be lit up for by a lighting, followed with thunder. The deafening rumble of elements made all the paintings and mirrors shake on the hooks. Ropes of rain kept hitting the ground outside mercilessly, flooding the paved courtyard and turning the decorative lawn into a soaked treacherous swamp.

John didn’t feel very well that day, and fell asleep right after an attempted dinner, which featured determined insistence on Brian’s side and confused yet equally stubborn refusal on John’s. 

Roger waited with his own meal until Brian could join him, so they ate Mrs. Mack’s special Shepherd’s pie together. Roger attentively removed all the lamb mince from Brian’s plate, because the “no meat, please” request simply couldn’t reach the cook’s understanding. They didn’t talk much, but the atmosphere between them relaxed, making it an amicable silence, during which Roger cared only for Brian’s wine glass to never be empty. Brian decided to postpone all the impertinent questions indefinitely not to ruin this.

It was after dinner, when they sat down by the fireplace.

“I’m worried about the oilseed rape,” Roger commented, glancing outside.

“Is it sensitive?” Brian asked, comfortable in his chair, and watched Roger return from the window with two snifter glasses and a decorative crystal decanter. With the sounds of storming elements, the cheery, flickering fire combined with a heavy dinner in his stomach and upholstered armchair... yes, Brian smiled blissfully, this was what heaved looked like.

“Well, it’s not wheat or anything,” Roger shrugged. The flames softly illuminated his angelic features, making him look somewhat aethereal. Brian couldn’t keep his eyes off him. “If we’re not surprised by a hail, the damage shouldn’t be drastic. Here, a little digestive after the wine and pudding,” Roger filled a glass from the decanter. “It’s one of my best cognacs, year 1828.”

Brian took the glass and sniffed it, powerful aroma of dried fruit and spices filling his senses.

Roger made himself comfortable in the other chair, stretching his legs towards the fireplace, and winked at Brian. “Smooth as a velvet. Coming from Henessy’s Paradise cellar. At least,” he giggled, “considering what I paid for it, it damn should.”

“You’re going great lengths in spoiling me,” Brian smiled and admired the cognac’s spark in the smooth firelight.

“I’m glad you noticed, Mr. May. And I wouldn’t mind going even further.”

“Where would that be?”

Roger looked at Brian with a dopey smile and his eyes sparkled. “Wherever you’d wish it,” he raised his glass to make a toast. “To happy homecomings.”

“To happy homecomings.”

The cognac’s flavour was rich, sweet and strong, dry cherries, jasmine, vanilla and a hint of the oak barrel where it aged. An ecstasy for senses.   
Brian sighed and closed his eyes to properly enjoy it. He knew Roger was watching him and for some reason, that made the moment even better. He couldn’t understand why but... it did. He smiled. It really, really did. So perfect...

He knew, somewhere in his heart, that what he felt for his employer exceeded all the boundaries he had set for himself, driving him in places he promised himself never ever to go to, and creating images of pleasure he didn’t dare to confess to his own soul. 

Maybe it was the quiet library, the fire, the dinner, the alcohol or Roger himself, but for the first time ever, he didn’t care and let it flow freely.  
He knew his timid smiles would be accepted and returned. And, God, they were... 

Brian felt such a fierce wave of emotions he shuddered from the impact and sipped on his drink again to mask it.

“Would you like some more?” Roger asked quietly and licked his lips, his stare intense and focused, like a cat lying in wait.

“Yes, please...”

His glass was refilled, but Brian put it aside. “I brought you something,” he announced and reached into his pocket for the package, “from Norwich.”

Roger’s eyes lit up with a child-like excitement. “Really? And – oh – you have it packed for me! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Brian laughed. “You don’t even know what it is yet!”

But Roger was already tearing the wrapping paper to reveal a new “nice and sparkly” cigarette case.

“Brian...,” he looked up, “that’s so beautiful!” His wide eyes mirrored the flames from the fireplace. “It’s so... luminous!”

In this light, indeed, it looked luminous. The case itself appeared simple, made of white silver, but on the lid, a small, partly blown rose-bud was engraved. It strongly resembled the one Roger left on Brian’s nightstand the morning he left.

“Thank you...,” Roger repeated, and Brian’s heart fluttered when he saw Roger so touched by the gift.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Actually, I...,” Roger looked down timidly, “I... have something for you too. It arrived just yesterday.”

“Wh- for me?” Brian stuttered. “But I just... I mean, you don’t need to give anything back! And you already...,” he bit his tongue, as he realized any protests would be fruitless as well as quite rude.

Roger got up and rummaged through the mess on the writing desk. Brian watched curiously, and his interest even spiked when the blond returned with a stock of papers in his arms.

“What is it?”

“I wrote to my contacts in London a while ago already and they got it for me,” Roger sat back into his chair and his smile was infectious, “please, take it. It’s a journal.”

“A journal?”

Brian took the papers... and froze, staring at the front cover, which proudly stated: 

“The Astrophysical Journal: An International Review of Spectroscopy and Astronomical Physics”

Oh... God... His hands were shaking as he stared at the unexpected treasure which appeared in his possession just like that, out of the blue. He had read about it five years ago when it came out in America, founded by George Hale and James Keeler. The first ever journal to fill the gap between astronomy and physics. He remembered so distinctly the wishful longing he had felt back then... God, he would kill for just one glance of it... and here it was. All his. 

“Mr. Taylor...,” Brian whispered, and his voice came out unnaturally high and squeaky. Suddenly he realized he had no idea what to say. Everything would just feel so little, so inadequate. He tried to at least look at Roger, but his stare was drawn over and over to the journal. He didn’t even realize he was trembling.

Roger was watching him. “What are you waiting for?” he smiled leniently, as if he understood the stormy conflict in Brian’s head. “Read it.”

Brian hesitated. “Now?”

“Of course, now. What better moment is there? Get on with it.”

That was all the encouragement Brian needed, and a shiver ran down his spine as he opened his new treasure on the first page. He finished his glass, trying to cool down the excitement for better focus, and dove into the article on astronomical applications of the spectroscope. Renown professors, physicists from Harvard, Yale and Princeton, sharing their research and views with all the facts, all the details, all the fascinating conclusions, and it was here... printed black on white, waiting for Brian to read. His glass was refilled. He didn’t even notice.

The clock in the hall struck eleven and the library was darker than before, flames in the fireplace much slowly going out.  
Brian just turned the last page. The end. His head overflowed with the indescribable feeling of satisfied excitement. His mind was working on full gears, processing with everything he just read, so far disorganized and confused, but that even increased the excitement. With a happy smile, he closed his eyes, trying to absorb as much as possible, but he found it surprisingly difficult to focus. He felt warm, hazy, and heavy in the chair. The decanter with cognac was half-empty now. He didn’t even realize how much he had drunk. Doesn’t matter...   
Lazily, he turned his head to smile at Roger, who returned the look and put away the issue of Punch he’d been leafing through.

“All finished?”

Brian nodded and a whirlwind of emotions filled his mind. So much to say... 

“Thank you,” he whispered, and he meant it, from the bottom of his heart. “It’s... all just incredible. I never thought...”

During his babble, Roger got up. Something about him made Brian aware of the small secret fire suddenly lighting up in his stomach. The intellectual excitation which kept his head going at full speed, all giddy and fascinated, transformed in something else, much more primitive. He missed something. He wanted... something.

Roger walked over to him and sat on the armrest of his chair. Brian felt the heat radiating from the other man’s body, and he could smell Roger’s expensive cologne, rose-scented soap, alcohol and a faint trace of tobacco. His mouth got dry.

“Please...,” Roger whispered and leaned even closer, “read me something.”

He looked up, surprised by the unexpected request. “From... from the journal?”

“Of course.”

Brian fumbled over the pages, the excitement from Roger’s closeness making him clumsy. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his head. He was both sweating and shivering under the waves of hot and cold, feeling a need to giggle hysterically, start crying, or maybe both at once. But now, he persisted, focusing on the article.

“The relationship between the grating spacing,” Brian read shakily, “and the angles of the incident and diffracted beams of light is known as the grating equation. Each point on the wave front of a propagating wave can be considered to act as a point source, and the wave front at any subsequent point can be found by adding together the contributions from each of these individual point sources.” 

Roger leaned even closer, looking over his shoulder. Brian tried to ignore it, but his head spinned and his breath was getting shorter. And so was Roger’s, he realized. With every pore, he felt it. His own body started to be too small and restraining, the air around them hot and lacking oxygen. Brian wanted to jump up, run out into the rain and scream, just scream it all out, all this...

“... Gratings may be of the 'reflective' or 'transmissive' type, analogous to a mirror or lens, respectively. The derivation of the grating equation is based on an idealised grating. However, the relationship between the angles of the diffracted beams-”

He gasped when Roger grabbed his thigh to keep balance, just like this. Brian felt himself getting harder under the touch and squirmed uncomfortably.

“What is it, Mr. May?”

“No-nothing... so... diffracted beams, the grating spacing, and the wavelength of the light apply to any regular structure of the same spacing, because the phase relationship between light scattered from adjacent elements of the grating remains the same.”

No, he couldn’t do this. Brian closed the journal, humiliated by his own inability to continue, but too drunk and aroused to do anything about it.

“What are we playing here, Roger?” he mumbled. “Please... I beg you – ah!” He gasped when Roger’s hand strengthened his grip. 

Roger was looking at him, his gaze intense and pupils wide and black.

“So beautiful...,” he whispered with a smile, softly brushing over Brian’s curls. “You have no idea, Brian... no idea how much I crave you.” 

“That’s because...,” Brian swallowed, “I’m the only one here. If circumstances were different...”

Roger only smiled. “I was thinking, actually...,” he admitted, “imagining things, while you were away.”

“What... what did you imagine?” 

“I imagined I was in London, making my way over the Tower Bridge on Romeo’s back, wearing my ceremonial uniform. And I’d see you, going the other way, a physics student. You wouldn’t spare me a glance, lost in your thoughts. But I’d remember you as the most magical moment of my day.”

Brian swallowed, his mouth completely dry and face burning. Roger offered him his unfinished glass and he emptied it. “And then?”

“Then I’d see you again, few days later,” Roger continued, “I’d be invited to a party, and then – I’d notice you, not talking to anyone, just staring out of a window, because the first stars just appeared. And I’d dance with ladies, I’d talk, I’d laugh... but I’d be restless, my glances running towards you constantly – but you wouldn’t look. Only long after the midnight, I’d walk out on a balcony to cool myself in the night air – and you’d be there, just standing. I’d say something trivial about the weather, you’d turn around...”

“And?” Brian asked eagerly.

“And I’d be very much lost in your eyes. Drowned in them, so deep they are, but burned by the fire as well. I’d be gone for the world, Brian,” Roger whispered, “deaf and blind to everyone... except you. But you... he way you look at me... You look at me, but you don’t see me. Not really, you don’t see inside me... why don’t you see me?”

“I do see you.”

“Do you now? What can you see when you look at me?”

“That... you prepared this,” Brian whispered slowly, all his emotions, the alcohol, the arousal, the cock painfully hard in his trousers... everything made it just so difficult.

“I won’t do anything you wouldn’t want me to, Brian. I swear.”

Brian just looked into those blue eyes, when a wave of sudden weakness washed over him. He realized so clearly, that it didn’t matter. He couldn’t fight anymore. Neither with Roger, nor himself. He didn’t want to fight.  
He just wanted... so, so much... 

Roger brushed Brian’s curls from his sweaty forehead and whispered: “It’s alright... you don’t have to hold back... it’s alright...”

Brian let out a soft whimper, all his senses screaming, begging for Roger.

“Kiss me...,” he asked quietly, looking up on that angelic face above, “please... kiss me...”

And Roger did.

Brian let out a soft moan and grabbed Roger firmly, dragging him from the armrest, and felt him shudder under his hands. The kiss itself was slow, soft, and tasting of alcohol, only much more intoxicating. Brian devoured it. There was only him now, him and Roger... so pliant and warm in his arms, so close Brian could feel the beat of his heart. Way too quick, just like his own.

And then it was over, and Roger pulled away.

“Roger...,” Brian moaned desperately, “please...”

“I think not.” Roger got up resolutely. “Though I would love to, Brian, but...,” he hesitated, “... you’re way too drunk. If I keep this up, believe me, tomorrow you’d hate me for it.”  
He leaned in for the last time and pressed another kiss on Brian’s lips, a chaste peck, but sweet and soft nonetheless.

“Roger...,” Brian whimpered.

“Good night, Mr. May... and thank you.”

With that, Roger walked away, leaving Brian next to the dying fireplace, hot, confused and alone.


	7. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here

The sun was already up when Brian woke up in his bed, slowly and unwillingly. The events from yesterday evening started to come back and he shuddered.  
God, did they really... He gave a quick glance at his brand-new astrophysics journal, just to make sure it wasn't all just a dream. There it was, laid proudly on the windowsill. No dream. To be honest... was it all real... Brian expected his head to hurt way more. Nothing a glass of water and piece of breakfast couldn't fix.

He looked out of his window into the rising sun and found it higher than expected.

John!

Brian jumped up in panic. God! John wasn't happy to see the budding affection between his grandson and his carer already, no doubt about that. Now, if Brian comes late because of a night of drinking and smooching with aforementioned grandson... No, no, no, no, no! Why didn't Deborah wake him?

Hurriedly, he reached for his clothes, when he noticed a cup of already cold black coffee and a note on his nightstand.

_Dear Mr. May, rise and shine! I ordered the servants to let you sleep. Don't worry about John, I'll take care of him. Enjoy your morning and later we'll meet to talk. Until then, you're in my inappropriate thoughts._  
_ R.T._

Brian sat back on the bed, deep in thought, and sipped on the coffee. He didn't have any doubt about the topic of the conversation, but... what now. He considered himself a man who can face facts. What happened, happened. And no matter how he felt about it... This ends. Today. Now. No more.

When he established this, Brian felt better. After all, denying himself, that was safe. That was what he knew. He was good at it.  
Maybe... he could use some of this time to investigate. Everything he had heard in Norwich, the missing documents, Beach’s unawareness of Roger’s existence and the minor issue of former estate owner Freddie Mercury being a singing ghost.

He decided to start in the library. If Roger took care of John at the usual hour, by now he had to be on his belated morning ride. Plenty of time.

As the methodical person he was, Brian sat down by the writing desk, trying to put together what he knew:

_Beach knows John for the last 30 years, thought he was never married, no knowledge of legitimate children_  
_ Roger illegitimate then?_  
_ Is surname “Taylor” related to Taylors who owned the estate and died out (last one Michael Taylor)?_

Brian sighed. Stick to the facts. Just stick to the facts, no surmises. Very well, so...

_Frederick Mercury inherited Rhye Hall from Taylors in 1845_  
_ Documents about Rhye Hall stolen 30 years ago (1870)_

This just... made no sense whatsoever. The dates, the names, the events... all just plain wrong. The only thing he got out of this list so far was year 1870, when John contacted Beach to manage affairs of Rhye Hall and documents got stolen out of the archive. But then Brian remembered the librarian described the thief as “nearly a boy”. Were John nearly a boy thirty years ago, he would’ve been around fifty by now, which he very obviously was not. Brian wouldn’t guess him a day under eighty. It might have been all just a coincidence.

So just to sum up... after Taylors disappeared from the face of the Earth, the place went to Mercury and then, somehow, to John Deacon, two recluses keeping the house shut and not appearing in public. Nothing whatsoever brought Brian any closer to knowing who Roger was. As if he just appeared out of thin air. Brian knew these old rich families have their share of eccentricities, but it was mostly Roger’s and even John’s reluctance to answer any of Brian’s questions what made this so much more peculiar. What secrets Roger and John keep from him?

He needed more information to get anywhere, but as he soon discovered, the library was of no use in the matter. All the documents, though messy, were only recent records and accounts – Roger’s work undoubtedly.

Brian huffed in frustration and looked out of the window at the heavy sky. Impossible situation. Words of the Great Detective appeared on his mind. In one of Brian’s favourite stories he said: When you have excluded the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. As he was though, he saw a great issue with this – how to define impossible? Few weeks ago, the answer would be simple, but now... Perhaps he could doubt he had seen a real ghost, but John talked about him and Roger in a way as well... No, the ghost of Freddie Mercury was real. Very much real. And where is a ghost, there have been a person. And if there was a person, there must be...

“Mr. Hince!” Brian burst into the kitchen, holding his flank which hurt after the run. I should really exercise more, he thought.

The butler put down the silver kettle he had been polishing and raised an eyebrow.  
“Can I help you, Mr. May?”

Brian nodded. “Is Mr. Taylor still out?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. May.”

“And do you know where the previous owners of the estate are buried?”

Perhaps I should’ve taken the coat after all, Brian contemplated, as he strode across the endless lawn and into the sparse wood. It took at least half an hour before he got to a small mausoleum.

“A tomb in the shadows,” Brian mumbled. How melodramatic. What do all the rich people have against normal graves?

The mausoleum was a small building made of solid granite. Brian guessed the Taylors had it built along with the mansion, more than a hundred of years ago, but unlike the house, this place didn't get much of a maintenance since. The heavy stone walls were wet and covered with a thick layer of moss, and the rusty wrought gate threatened with blood poisoning to everyone who'd dare touch it. However, the proud inscription sculpted above it was still clearly readable.

_TAYLOR_  
_ Eram quod es, eris quod sum_

Brian shivered. The whole place had an aura of sadness and abandon.  
He wished he had a more carefree nature, some that would allow him the let this go and enjoy his free time in a more pleasant way. Stupid little boy... that's what John said once.  
I am not. Brian clenched his teeth. Nobody's stupid little boy. Not Roger's, nor John's.

Decisively, he pushed the door and it opened, letting out an unpleasant screech. Brian carefully watched those several sharp and slippery steps leading inside.

The crypt wasn’t big by any means, Brian counted seven steps before he got to the rear wall. The air smelled of spoiled water, mildew and decay. He tried not to imagine what lies behind the desks in the walls. Generations of Taylors laid to rest. The cold and dampness got underneath his shirt, he felt it on his skin. Somewhere, drops of water were falling in regular intervals to make the scene somehow even drearier.

Brian tried to focus on the names and years engraved and cursed himself for not bringing any candles. After inspecting several desks with dates too old to be interesting, finally, he found a familiar name, the only not-Taylor here, it seemed.

_Frederick Mercury_  
_ 1825 – 1870_  
_ Lover of Life, Singer of Songs_

He exhaled quietly and softly touched the engraving. There was that spectral pianist, returning from beyond to what he loved. Was it about the music? Something in his mind claimed that the true and full answer would be possibly much more complicated.  
He shifted his attention to the neighbouring stone.

_Michael Taylor_  
_ 1787 – 1845_

So... that must have been the last Taylor to own Rhye Hall. Apparently, nobody bothered with an epitaph here. Otherwise quite unremarkable, but... Brian frowned when he noticed the desk under Michael’s.

That... certainly was uncommon. Peculiar, even.

It looked like somebody had attacked the stone, forcefully and brutally, with hammer and chisel. Long deep scratches went all over the smooth surface, leaving the name of the poor deceased completely illegible. Luckily, the desk was too hard for the unknown vandal to damage it entirely.  
Brian leaned in closer, trying to work out what he could.

_R...... ......ylor_  
_ 182.... - ....45_  
_ Rest i......eace_

What on Earth...

“Mr. May! What the actual hell!”

Brian turned around so quickly he heard his neck crack. In the entrance of the crypt, there was Roger. In his riding clothes, a crop in his hand, he looked both bewildered and displeased.

“Mr. ... Mr. Taylor,” Brian stammered and stepped back. “I didn’t... expect to see you until later.”

Roger nodded. “Somehow I guessed that. Mr. May... this estate has twenty thousand acres of land. Is there any reason why you chose to crawl in here, out of all the options?” He clearly tried to stay composed, but Brian noticed the strain behind the words.

“I... I was walking.”

“And?”

“And... I saw a badger,” Brian improvised, “here in the forest. It looked like their leg was broken, and I wanted to help. So I... followed the badger. In here.”

“You followed a badger,” Roger repeated and a corner of his eye twitched. “Into our family’s closed crypt? How did the badger even manage to get in here, Mr. May?”

“They’re good diggers.”

“You said its leg was broken.”

Brian shrugged awkwardly. “I guess... they’re indeed very good diggers.”

“It seems they must be,” Roger nodded slowly, “so... where is it now?”

“It ran away.”

“With a broken leg? And God help me, Mr. May, if you say they’re indeed very good runners-”

“They’re not, actually,” Brian hurried with a desperate answer, “though they can gallop even as fast as 20 miles per hour, but only short distances. That’s why they shelter underground and live in burrows called setts. Some are solitary, moving from home to home, while others are known to form clans.”

Roger stared at him incredulously for a moment, and then sighed. “Please, Mr. May... just get out of there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Little sheepishly, Brian stepped out of the mausoleum and Roger slammed the gate shut stronger than necessary. Romeo was standing nearby, snacking on bushes.  
For a moment, nobody said anything, Brian only glanced up to the sky, which once again promised rain.

Roger sighed. “Why did you do this? And please, be honest.”

“I was... curious,” Brian admitted quietly, and a massive stone settled in his stomach, getting heavier by Roger’s disappointment, “there are many things I don’t understand... and I have to.”

“What things?”

“The ghost was real,” he said firmly. “It was Frederick Mercury, who owned Rhye Hall from 1845 to 1870, when he died, and John took over. Who is John? And who are you?”

“You know who we are, Brian!”

“No, I don’t!”

Roger dodged his stare and turned around to watch Romeo munching on the young trees.  
“My father once said... that what is meant to be dead has to be laid to rest. Please, why can’t you leave it be?” He turned back again to look at Brian, his blue eyes wide and teary. “Why do you feel the need to poke and pry into something long gone? You’re alive... we’re alive... living, breathing, blood, bones and flesh – that’s what matters. I don’t want to talk about the past. And I don’t want to talk about anyone in there.” He waved his hand vaguely towards the crypt.

“Why?”

“Because I hate it!” Roger exclaimed and tears ran from his eyes freely now. Brian offered him a handkerchief, Roger took it and threw it on the ground.

“I hate it! Hate it!” he repeated. “I hate death, I hate... thinking about it, I hate being near it... tell me, Mr. May,” he whispered suddenly and took Brian’s hand with a feverish urgency, “have you ever been close to death? Your own death? Really, really close?”

Brian shook his head. “Never.”

“I have,” Roger pulled him a bit closer, his breathing rapid and irregular, “I have been there, Brian. And believe me, I’d do whatever it takes not to go through it again. Ever again. I was weak... too weak to move, to weak to understand what was happening around me, to recognize people I l-loved... I tried to fight, I was fighting for each breath... and I felt myself losing. Suffocating in my own body and... I couldn’t get out... I wasn’t hungry anymore, I wasn’t thirsty, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t see... just heard the rattle in my own throat... God!”

“Shhh...,” Brian embraced the shaking blond and kissed his hair gently, “shh... it’s alright, Roger, it’s alright... you don’t have to think about it now... you got out of it, that’s important. You’re here, you’re healthy and you’re alive, that’s important...”

“Yes...,” Roger whispered, “that’s important...” Still in Brian’s arms, he looked up, so broken, child-like and angelic. “Please, Brian... kiss me again.”

“Roger, I-”

“Please! Please!”

Brian hastily pressed his lips over Roger’s. He felt the other man shaking, wetness of his cheeks touching his own, saltiness getting into his mouth, and he got lost in the sensation.

He would make Roger better... his kiss will do that... he kept kissing and kissing because he knew how guilty he would feel the moment he’d let go.

Roger let out a soft whine. “Oh, Brian...,” he mumbled with Brian’s lips still relentlessly devouring his, “... will you make me forget?”

“... everything...,” Brian promised and hungrily deepened the kiss. “... everything...” So pliant... so warm... so vulnerable... so needy in his arms...

Roger mewled quietly and opened his mouth just a bit, letting Brian in.

Meanwhile, Romeo finished the bush and whinnied impatiently, trying to win his master’s attention again.

Brian, disturbed by the sound, let go and stepped back, suddenly cold and confused. No, he didn’t plan this to happen, it wasn’t supposed to happen. Why did he do it? He knew better, he could control himself, couldn’t he?  
He wasn’t some toy of his own perverted desires, was he? No... he knew he was a freak, but he could handle this... hold himself on a leash... ignore the burning need in his belly.  
This was the last time it happened, he promised himself that. Yesterday, he had been drunk. Today, Roger was upset. Both understandable. But he won’t do this again. He can’t. Under any circumstances.

Roger patted Romeo, mounted him in one smooth, fluent motion, and reached his hand towards Brian.

“Come with me,” he asked. “He can hold us both and I want to show you something.”

Brian hesitated. “I should return... eh, John...”

“Come with me,” Roger repeated. “Please.”

With a sigh, Brian clambered up on Romeo. In the saddle meant for one they were quite uncomfortable, and he felt himself slipping back onto Roger, who tried to push forward as much as possible, hugging Brian from behind with one hand, and holding reins with the other.  
Finally, they were both seated, and Roger bid his horse to go.

To Brian it felt like forever before they arrived on the seashore, but finally Roger stopped and they both got down.  
The sand beach felt lonely and deserted. Behind them, there were marshlands, soaked by the incessant rains, in front of them... the sea. Brian inhaled, and the air was fresh and salty, smelling of fish and seaweed.

Heavy, grey sky mirrored itself in the dark blue depths which seemed endless and ancient. The very first people who ever came to Britain had been looking at the same water as he did now, Brian thought, with Roger by his side.

“I never get enough of this view,” Roger whispered, “it makes one almost wish for wings, doesn’t it?”

Brian nodded. He suspected why Roger brought him here, and he was most determined not to give in.

“It’s going to rain,” he remarked flatly, “we should head back.”

“No, please, wait,” Roger begged and turned to the sea again. “Give me some time. Just so you know, this is where I come every time I go for a ride. There’s... something wild and untamed here, don’t you feel it?”

“Yes...,” Brian looked at the endless sea, “... I know what you mean.”

“I’ve been here during a storm once or twice,” Roger smiled a bit and his eyes glistened. “The greatest theatre nature can ever show us. Water was everywhere, everything roared, and gale started and suddenly – a lightning. Nothing but a power of elements, in their rawest state.” He looked in Brian’s eyes. “It was the most exhilarating thing.”

“There’s another storm coming just now,” Brian mumbled, glancing on the sky.

Roger smiled, took his hand and kissed it gently. “Let it come.”


	8. Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō

The sky lit up with a sharp lightning, followed by a deafening roar of thunder. The sea got restless and waves grew higher and wild. Heavy drops of rain were getting bigger, only to become a nearly compact wall of water falling from the sky in a matter of barely two minutes. Salty wind tore leaves from the nearest trees and sent them fluttering away until the rain pinned them to the ground.

Two men ran across the beach, followed by a startled horse.

“Mr. May! Come! Faster!” Roger laughed wildly, though he hardly made himself heard over the oncoming storm. Wet sand was splashing from his feet.

“Roger! We need to hide!” Brian shouted and wiped the water from his face. “We need to get back to the house! It’s dangerous here, and we’re soaked through!”

Roger stopped to give him a wide grin and to gesture excitedly. 

“We’re going to a house, Brian! Our house! Run!” Brian and Romeo had no choice but to follow. 

They ran around a dune, and Brian understood where they were heading – a small wooden shack built by fishermen. It was old, rotting, and so unstable every blow of the wind threatened to take it away, but the tar roof protected from the rain.

Roger banged the frail door shut behind them.

“Well, this was exciting,” he chuckled. 

Romeo was left outside, protected from the rain by an overhanging roof.

Brian looked around. The shelter was confined, all filled with fishing rods, nets, buckets and whatnot. Wet, rotting floorboards creaked under his steps and little gusts of cold wind kept sneaking through the wooden walls. Everything in there smelled of fish and seaweed. 

“At least it doesn’t rain here,” Brian mumbled and wringed out his hair. When attempting to dry his face, at least a little bit, he shivered with cold. All his clothes, the waistcoat, the shirt, the trousers, even his underwear, everything was drenched.

He looked up to Roger, who stood by the door, watching the rain outside. The dripping wet golden hair seemed darker now, sharply framing his gentle face. 

“They always get me strangely exhilarated,” Roger spoke, without even looking at Brian, “and... pensive, at the same time. The storms, I mean. In life... everything changes so quickly, but things like this... storms were the same when I was a boy and they’ll remain so for years and years to come. I can’t get enough.”

“I don’t really like them.” Brian considered sitting on the wet ground, but he dismissed the thought. “They’re fun when you’re sitting inside by the fire, but here...”

“Here we’re almost helpless against it,” Roger smiled in understanding. “That’s what irks you, isn’t it? Storms come and go as they please, and we just have to take it. You can’t control them. And that scares you.”

“I’m not scared,” Brian frowned. “I’m cold, and wet and uncomfortable. That’s all.”

Roger kept looking in the rain. “Oh, I think you’re scared,” he said quietly, but Brian heard him just well, “I think you’re scared, but not of the storm. There’s something else.”

“Do you really know me better than I know myself, Mr. Taylor?”

“Very likely.”

That supercilious attitude annoyed Brian. He leaned back against the frail wall and crossed his arms. “Go on, then.”

Roger’s eyes sparkled with a hidden smile. The deep gaze itself made Brian’s heart quicken, and he pressed his lips tighter to conceal it. 

“You don’t like things you can’t control,” Roger stated simply. “Not the everyday, petty trouble, but the deep, powerful ones. Like the storm outside.”

Brian frowned. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, I think it is, and I think it’s because... you spent your whole adult life fighting such force. A storm. Not outside... but deep inside you.” Roger’s voice was velvety, but adamant in his claim. “And you know, sooner or later, you’re about to lose. Or perhaps... you already have?”

Another thunder resonated around. Brian swallowed. It tasted of salt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Brian,” Roger walked several slow steps towards him, “you’re shivering.”

“I’m cold.”

“I find that hard to believe. Brian...,” Roger’s eyes were blue and wide, “... you don’t need to fear me, you know that. I’m not here to hurt you... unless you ask me to, that is.”

Brian would step back but he found himself pressed on the wall already. However, Roger kept his distance.

“Brian?”

“... Yes?”

“Would you help me out of this coat?” Roger’s tone was meek and pleading. “It’s cold, wet and heavy.”

Brian hissed. “Why don’t you just take it off then?”

“I would, but my hands are chilled. I can’t do it.”

“Liar.”

“Please?”  
Brian sighed, and numbly headed on to oblige to Roger’s wishes. He unbuttoned the coat and took it off him as quickly as he could.

“Here,” he announced sharply, “it’s done.”

“You see, I don’t bite,” Roger smiled. The soaked shirt clung on his body. “So, tell me, something, my Great Detective. Why do I scare you so? Right now, you’d run far away if you could. You’d hide under a carpet or climb on a roof just to get away from me. Why?”

Brian let out a soft gasp as if he tried his best to prevent his hidden emotions be known. “You ask me?”

“Do I scare you?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Good, because... you’d be scared not of me, but yourself. You’re afraid because I entice you. I excite you, as you do me. Oh, you do... I tried to resist you, Brian,” he confessed silently. “Sometimes... I feel like I can control it, but then I see the fire behind your eyes... and I can’t stop myself. You’re holding it back, tied down with all those chains and restraints, but I know... I know better than that.” Brian listened to his every word, hypnotized and fascinated. “You’re on the edge of the cliff,” Roger mumbled, “looking down, wishing nothing more than to jump and fly... free...wild... and then, oh those things you would do to me.” 

“No!” Brian whined softly, as he felt the treacherous fire once again burning more than anyone could handle. Out of control. “No! No! We can’t!”

Roger reached his hands towards him, eyes wide. “Why, my sweet Brian, why not?”

“Because this is wrong!” he exclaimed desperately. His hands flew to his face, gripping on his curls and pulling in sheer misery. “We can’t do it, this is a perversion, devil’s temptation and I’m a weak, pathetic freak-”

“Brian, that’s not true! Why would you say that?”

“We can’t do it!”

Roger frowned. “Who’s here to judge us?”

“God forbids it!” 

“Ugh, spare me those arguments!”

“You’re stupid!” Brian shrieked. “It’s against the law! You don’t understand, but there are consequences for this! They’ll find us, they’ll catch us, they-”

“I understand better than you think,” Roger hissed sharply, his voice losing the seductive husk. “Believe me, I know damn too well. I’ve paid my price, greater than you can ever imagine, for being what we are, yet here I am. And I let nothing stand between me and a man I love.” 

Brian shivered, and not only with cold. His agitation was cooled by that single word. “You love me...,” he breathed. “You can’t... You can’t do that.”

“Too late for that kind of regret, Brian,” Roger looked aside with a soft smile, “it’s done and crystal clear. You took my peace the very moment I saw you in the library, but then... you’re just so... so...,” he laughed nervously, “...so... God, there’s just something about you that makes me want to rip your clothes off and slam you against the wall. I want to kiss you, so long and so hard until you run out of breath, gasping, whining as my fingers draw bruises all over your skin. But then... I’d just sink to my knees and beg your forgiveness, I want to defile you and worship you, I want to hear you cry in pain and ecstasy, but then I want to touch and caress all of you, to heal the memories on everything and every one who’d ever wronged you. I want to put your head in my lap, fondle you, and tell you all about the beauty you give me. I want to be inside you, and I want you to take me and make me cry and beg. I want all of it, all at once, the way you look at me... oh...”

Brian was staring at him, frozen. “You’re mad...,” he whispered, and his voice got almost lost in the roar of the storm outside. He bit his lip to stop the flood of tears getting ready in his eyes. “You’re mad, Roger.”

“Please, Brian...,” Roger begged, stepping closer, “... I just need you to listen. Nothing more, just that. I know how this works, and believe me, I would hold my tongue forever unless I’d hope that perhaps... just perhaps you feel the same about me.”

Brian felt his fear to fill his insides like a cold lead. It took some time before he found his voice.

“And if I say no?” he whispered shakily. “Can I even do that? Mr. Taylor... I appreciate all the compliments, but there’s no need for them. You pay for my living, you're the only person between me and a gutter. If you put me in front of a choice... there is none.”

“What do you even think of me?” Roger gasped. “Brian, my dear, I’d never... never do that to you! I love you, it’s as simple as that, and you love me, I know you do!” He got agitated again, gesticulating wildly. “How come that a man unafraid to seek answers for all the questions of the sky is too much of a coward to look what’s inside him! Look around!” he urged insistently. “This is the end of the world here, Brian, there’s just you, me, and this shack. This is who I am! This is who you are! You want to touch – so do touch. You want to kiss – do kiss! They say love like our must be unholy but tell me – why would God let us live, breathe, meet and love if he disapproved so much? We are his creation, just as everybody else. So, kiss me, Brian, for the love of everything, kiss me.”

Brian’s heart was beating so hard and quickly it almost hurt. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the dryness in his mouth, and said nothing, so the passionate speech stayed hanging in the air. After nearly a minute of a tense silence, he shivered when Roger’s fingertips feathered his cheek. As if in trance, he touched them softly.

“You’re cold...,” he whispered, his eyes locked with the blue ones. He took Roger’s hand, held it against his lips and kissed it chastely. “So cold...”

“Warm me then,” Roger whispered. “Only you can...”

Brian leaned forward for a kiss. He couldn’t but enjoy the shudder that ran through Roger’s already shivering body. The storm raged even louder than before. Cold wind broke into their shelter through cracks in the walls, freezing the poor human beings hiding in there. Roger... he was the only warm thing. Brian wanted nothing more than to touch him. Touch him for long and touch him a lot. He could almost hear Roger’s pulse. A fierce wave of need, desire and hunger ran through him and the whole world shrunk into the warm bundle in his arms. His. His Roger.

Roger pulled away from the kiss, gasping for air. “And to think,” he looked up, wide eyed, “I was the one dreaming of getting you breathless...”

Brian replied with another kiss, deeper and even more passionate. Were he to end up in hell, he might as well do whatever he pleased now.

Faintly, he felt Roger’s fingers working on the buttons of his coat. 

“Roger...,” he mumbled, “... I’ll be cold...”

The coat was unceremoniously dropped on the floor.

“No, you won’t,” Roger assured him and licked Brian’s throat, eliciting a breathy gasp.

“Please... Roger... oh...”

“Yes, my Brian? Just ask...”

Brian looked him straight in the eyes. “I want you,” he admitted quietly. “... So... what do we do?”

“Anything,” Roger assured him and made an attempt to continue the kissing, “whatever you like.”

“I...,” Brian hesitated, “I don’t know...”

Roger looked surprised. “You’ve never done this before?”

Brian shook his head uncomfortably and almost wished this floor would simply open to swallow them both.

“But I thought you and your friend... and that’s why they threw you out of school.”

Brian’s face, despite the cold around, turned pink. He looked down, mumbling something about letters.  
“I mean,” he blurted out hastily, “I’ve been with girls before! I know how that works, but I’ve... but, it can’t be that different, can it? You just put that in your...,” he glanced over Roger as if he were searching for some obvious choices, “... mouth?”

Roger giggled. “It’s an option,” he admitted, “but not the only one. What about...” Slowly, he took Brian’s hand and led it over the delicious curve of his own backside. “... in there?” He sighed under the touch.

Brian let out a soft moan and grabbed it.

Roger’s own hand made its way in Brian’s trousers, finding what it searched for almost fully hard and longer than expected. Brian whimpered.

“Someone seems very happy,” Roger teased, “greeting me so... so nicely...”

“Please, keep doing this...”

And Roger did, circling his thumb over the head of Brian’s cock and feathering the length, only to grip it firmly the very next moment, stroking all the way. He felt himself heating up from the touch, from the sound of Brian’s moans, from the look of his flushed face, pupils wide and lips parted, and from the way Brian kneaded his arse, holding it for dear life. Brian was turning into a whimpering puddle under his hand.

“Tell me,” Roger whispered, “what do you see now, love?” His hand quickened.

Brian gasped and pressed himself closer, hiding his face in Roger’s hair. 

Roger nibbled on the soft skin of his neck. “Tell me... my love...,” he repeated almost breathlessly, “...answer me.” 

“You,” Brian whimpered softly, “you, ah, Roger, please... let me... I need...”

“I can only guess what you meant, love,” Roger grinned, “but the wish is my command anyway.”

Brian hissed when the hand left his cock, but the disappointment was replaced by a wave of anticipation when Roger unbuttoned his own trousers and stripped them off, standing in front of him only in his cold, wet shirt.

“Take that off as well,” Brian ordered and with a breathy giggle, Roger did so.

“You b-better warm me really p-properly.” His delicate lips were turning slightly purple, shivering softly. “You-you’re still dressed.”

“I know,” Brian ran his hand over the naked body, stopping at the hard cock, “and you like it that way, don’t you?”

Wicked grin flickered across Roger’s face. “Naughty Brian...,” he teased. “I knew you had been hiding in there. That’s more like it, isn’t it?”

Brian nuzzled against his cheek. “So, what now? I just... do it?”

Roger chuckled. “It’s not a wet pussy you’re dealing with. I need your fingers first.”

Brian blinked in surprise. “What?”

“These...,” Roger took Brian’s hand and sucked on two fingers, “...before your cock. Open me up.”

“Oh...”

A small flash of worry ran through Brian when Roger turned his back towards him, and leaned forward, hands on the wall.

“Come on,” Roger whined, when the moment of hesitation got longer than he considered appropriate, “you can stare later, come on now!”

Obediently, Brian licked his fingers again and started with one, finding his way between Roger’s cheeks and inside.

Roger gasped when Brian wiggled it a little and pressed back, forcing the finger deeper.  
“Just like that...,” he mumbled, “yes...”

“Are you sure everything will... fit in?” Brian was still concerned.

Roger chuckled breathlessly. “Oh yes, it will. Now for God’s sake, give me more. I’ve done it with three just yesterday, you won’t hurt me.”

Brian’s face burned, as well as his other parts. “You’ve done this... by yourself?” he peeped, and a second finger joined the first one, getting a moan out of Roger.

“Oh, oh yes,” Roger whimpered as Brian moved his hand slowly back and forth, “I’ve done this many... many times. Thinking about you. I imagined you... with me there... touching me all over...”

“Like this?” Brian leaned forward and pressed his face against Roger’s back while his other hand found its way down, and after a small caress of Roger’s stomach it settled on his cock, fondling it softly. Roger moaned.

Brian smiled wickedly, enjoying the way Roger melted at his fingertips. His both hands found a steady rhythm while his mouth traced a line of soft kisses over Roger’s back. 

“Not so cold now, are we?” Brian whispered.

Roger squirmed. “Not cold,” he whined needily and arched his back even more, “not cold... please, please go on! God, yes!” he cried out when Brian’s fingertips hit the sensitive spot inside him. Brian might have not had many experiences, but the more attentive he was. Certainly, he couldn’t miss that reaction. He attacked the swell of Roger’s prostate with a new determination, getting a mess of whines, moans and cries in return.

“You’re so good to me, Brian... so good... and, ah, it’s been so long... damn long... ah...”

The sounds got strangely mixed with the thunder outside. 

Roger’s back was warm, flushed, and it tasted salty. Brian’s mouth got almost completely down the small of Roger’s back. Neither of his hands slowed down from the rhythm. The way Roger was caught between them, desperately getting pleasured from both sides... all that turned Brian on beyond belief. Had he any doubt where he belonged... well, not anymore.

“Bri-Brian,” Roger let out a gasp, “if you really want your cock in there... go now. I can’t- can’t much longer.”

Brian hummed in understanding, but somehow... he felt unwilling to give up the sensation of his face against Roger’s skin, kissing, licking and tasting, chasing the radiating heat. He decided quickly, pulled his fingers out, but before Roger could say anything further, he spread his cheeks wide and licked between them, the other hand still working on the cock, getting wet.

“Brian! Please, again, do... again!”

He wasn’t the one to deny pleasure when asked for it. Brian kept licking and kissing, desperate to hear the noises coming from Roger’s mouth, when finally, he got his tongue in.  
Roger wailed along his already incoherent moans. Brian buried himself even deeper, devouring the sensation, and slid two fingers back in. There were tears in his eyes and a painful strain in his cock, but he kept going.

Suddenly, Roger’s cries turned into a scream. He came hard, all over Brian’s hand, his back tense and arched.

The storm must’ve been raging right above them, the thunders were deafening, drowning only in the furious roar of the sea.

Roger was leaning against the wall, still, hot, and sweaty, breathing heavily. Brian stood behind him, silent.

“Well,” the blond sighed happily, “give me a minute... I’ll repay the favour. God, Brian, you’re going to ruin me,” he chuckled, “my silly little boy.”

Brian nodded, suddenly feeling confused and distant. Some cold drops from the roof fell on his neck.

_He’ll make you... stupid... his stupid little boy... no other way._

That’s what John said! Brian stumbled a step or two back. 

_You’ll have his buns for supper sooner than you think, silly Nancy boy._

God, what about John? He’ll know what happened here. Brian wasn’t sure how, but he’ll know. Will they fire him? So far Roger did everything John ever asked, would he refuse if the old man requested to get rid of the disobedient carer? They were rich, after all, Roger could get another man to pleasure him soon enough. Someone better and more experienced.

“Brian, love,” Roger frowned. “Are you alright? Please, say something.”

John knew this was going to happen, a long ago. Brian swallowed. Was he so predictable? Or was this something Roger simply did so often John could make an easy guess? Everything about this... something... Brian couldn’t put a finger on it... something felt wrong. Just... strange. Wrong. Suddenly, he felt betrayed, used and violated.

“Brian, come back. Talk to me. You look like death.”

“I’m sorry,” Brian sobbed and without further ado he ran into the storm, leaving Roger naked and confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter's title is a first verse of Carmen 16 by a famous Roman author Catullus known for his romantic poems.  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catullus_16


	9. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred

The old clock in the hall hit ten. The sound resonated through the corridors, strangely mixed with the persistent rain outside. The storm was gone already, but the downpour remained. Forever, it seemed. 

Brian had not yet returned.

In the library, Roger jumped up from the armchair and started pacing around the room. He tried not to stare anxiously into the darkness outside. For the fifth time in the last hour he lit up a cigarette, and inhaled frantically, filling the room with smoke, until he just dropped it into the ashtray half unfinished.

“Brian!” he gasped when the door creaked and couldn’t hide his disappointment upon seeing Mr. Hince. “Oh, that’s just you.”

“Forgive me to say this, sir, but you look terrible,” the butler stated calmly and walked over the room to pour Roger a glass of brandy. “Mr. May still hasn’t returned? Could I ask what happened before he left? It might give us a clue about where to look for him tomorrow.”

“You could not,” Roger turned back to the fire. “It was a private conversation. And no need to look for him tomorrow. He’ll come back. Soon. Now. He has to...” The shadows from the dark room fell in his face, bringing up tired eyes and worn out features. He’d been on a horse back all day, riding the estate from one end to another, but not a trace of Brian anywhere.

“I see,” the butler nodded. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“Do you think he’s hurt?” Roger turned back so quickly few drops of his brandy splashed on the carpet, his eyes wide and worried. “What if he... whatever could happen to him?”

“You’d find him if he was injured,” Hince put down the ashtray he wanted to empty and walked over to Roger, “all will be well.”

“And if it won’t? He’s gone!” Roger exclaimed and furiously threw his glass against the wall. The brandy made a stain on the Chinese wallpaper, slowly dripping down. Tiny pieces of glass were splattered all over the ground.

Mr. Hince sighed. “They say shards mean luck,” he said then, “but some sleep would be even better. There’s nothing you can do now.”

“There should be!”

“There is not.”

Roger kicked a chair, causing more damage to himself than to the furniture, but when he spoke, his voice was quiet and strained.

“John’s sleeping?”

“Yes, sir. Deborah took care of him.”

Roger nodded. “Pass my sincere thanks to her. Did she mention any difficulties?”

The butler hesitated, but when Roger narrowed his eyes, he decided to answer matter-of-factly in his usual fashion.

“The old master seemed to be troubled by your absence,” he said quietly, “and complained about his pains, so we administered an extra spoon of laudanum. And... I think we should consider a nappy, at least for the night.”

He expected Roger to blow up again, but on the contrary, the blond only swallowed and blindly sat down, his eyes shut.

“What if Brian left?” he whispered. “I can’t lose them both, I’d die if I lose them both, and there’s no time...”

“We checked his belongings, sir, nothing is missing.”

“That’s no proof!” Roger snapped, jumped up and leaned his forehead against the wall in resignation. “We’ll never find him, God, what if he drowned in the marsh and I’m just sitting here not knowing it, that way we’ll never find him and-”

“Mr. Taylor?” soft, timid voice peeped from the door.

“Brian!” Roger’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. He’d just run over the room and crash Brian’s ribs in a tight hug, but... he backed down, when he realized the man was still soaking wet. 

“I hope that’s mud on your trousers,” Roger stated and pierced his runaway carer with an icy stare.

Brian lowered his eyes as if he never saw a carpet before. “Yes, it’s mud. And the green ones would be grass and moss... I’ve been in the woods.”

“I can see that,” Roger went closer and noticed several sticks and some needles in the dishevelled hair. But more importantly, he saw Brian’s lips purplish blue and his whole body shivering with cold. “Mr. Hince,” he turned to the butler, “be so kind and ask Deborah to run a hot bath upstairs, then go to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Mack Mr. May hasn’t eaten since breakfast. And bring a big bowl of hot water, tea, towels and one of my bathrobes. That’ll be all.”

“As you wish, sir,” the butler nodded and left to get everything required.

Brian sneezed.

“Come and sit by the fire, for God’s sake,” Roger frowned and handed him a dry handkerchief.

“I shouldn’t, I’ll get the armchair dirty-”

“Sit. By. The. Fire. Now.” 

There was no room for arguments, so Brian sheepishly obeyed. Roger poured another glass of brandy and pushed it in Brian’s frozen hands.

“Drink. All of it.”

Again, Brian did as he was told.

“So...,” Roger leaned against a wall nonchalantly, “in the woods, huh? During a storm. I suppose the trees just accepted you as one of their own, that’s the only explanation for how on Earth no branch hit you.”

Brian bit his lip. “I should go upstairs to help John to bed-”

“The only bed you care about today is your own, young man!” Roger snapped, looking like a dissatisfied goddess of revenge. “You are going to get dry, you’ll get changed, eat your dinner, drink a full pot of tea and I don’t care if it burns! THEN you’ll have a bath while Deborah prepares the fire in your bedroom and a heater for your bed. THEN you’ll sleep, and if I hear a single sneeze from you, God help me, Brian May!” 

Brian sank lower into his chair. “I... I don’t have a fireplace in my room, Mr. Taylor.”

“I’ve had your things moved to one of the bedrooms on the first floor, next to John’s,” Roger explained, “so you could hear his bell even during the night. There was the question, of course, if you ever come back. For what I knew, you could’ve been dead.” Roger inhaled sharply. “Do you realize how I felt when you left me in that shack? I was frantic! Didn’t I tell you the marshlands are dangerous; didn’t I tell you? And you run straight in there! You could’ve drowned! Something could’ve fallen on you! You could’ve slipped and break something, you could’ve fallen somewhere! You could’ve been hit by a lightning! What on Earth were you thinking?”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Hit by a lightning?”

“Stop interrupting me!”

“Yes, Mr. Taylor.”

“Yes? Yes what?” Roger went on in his furious rant. “Answer me – what on Earth were you thinking? There was a storm outside, Brian bloody May, a storm! You know, I would stop if you asked me to. I let you do everything so you wouldn’t lose the control! What happened, Brian!”

“I’m sorry, I just-”

“I screamed your name!” Roger shrieked. “I ran after you! In the rain! NAKED!”

“Ehm...,” Mr. Hince cleared his throat discreetly. “Your hot water, towels and a bathrobe, sir.”

Roger stepped back to make space. Then the door opened again, and Brian’s breath got caught in his throat. Mrs. Mack was holding the largest dinner tray in the history of mankind filled to the brim with food, largely hot and heavy dishes.  
She put that all on the small table next to Brian and folded her arms under her massive breasts in the same gesture Roger did before.

“So, here you are,” she stated. Brian tried to shrink and disappear under the carpet. 

Roger leaned against the wall to enjoy the show.

It wasn’t even that bad... Brian thought and closed his eyes, almost purring with delight in the hot bath. He could smell a lavender salt from the water, a jasmine soap, and a rose oil from a small bottle next to him. White towels got already warmed up, just waiting for Brian to use them.  
He knew Roger was more worried than angry at him, but that made him ten times guiltier about what happened. So far he went along with everything Roger ordered, though he found the procedure a little bit excessive. 

This... this bath is nice though... 

Brian closed his eyes in pure bliss. Hot water with salts caressed his skin, slowly relaxing all the tense muscles. After a whole day of cold and fear he was finally warm, fed and pleasantly tired, knowing a large bed with fluffy pillows and down duvet waited for him. He had mixed feelings about that new bedroom though. Roger’s argument that it would be practical for taking care of John, that made sense, but still... That room seemed to be just as spacious, if not even more so than John’s, and decorated with an equal taste. It didn’t seem right, after all, Brian was just a carer, even though he felt himself turning more and more into Roger’s courtesan of sorts. 

He didn’t want to go back to the cramped room in the attic, but he swore, that he’d never lose sight of what his real duty was. To look after John. From now on, that must be his top priority.

He kind of expected Roger to show up during his bath... but he didn’t. Brian waited, the water was getting colder and colder, and his skin wrinkled. Stupid, he scolded himself and decisively stepped out of the bath. He put on a new nightshirt (he had never seen that one before - a gift from Roger, probably) and left to tuck himself under the white covers of his new bed, a bed so wide it could easily host two people.

In this bed, Brian felt like a king, and this luxurious room was his realm. Unwittingly, he smiled in delight. The dominating colours seemed to be blue and silver, but the furniture of light linden wood prevented it from looking cold or unwelcoming. The indigo carpet on the floor matched the velvet canopies. There was a large fireplace, an armchair near the window, a writing desk... everything. Brian noticed a small box of chocolates on his nightstand. No note. He tasted one and discovered a caramel filling.

He wasn’t sure if all this meant love, concern, or an apology. It worried him. Where was Roger? He didn’t come during the bath, very well, but Brian expected to find him here.  
What if... Brian swallowed heavily... what if Roger didn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore, and this attention was meant as a farewell gift of sorts?

It is what it is, who knows. Brian shook his head, he could worry about this later. Now, he had work to do - a plan he mastered during the day.   
He looked around, even though he knew he was alone, and slipped out from the covers, determined to make a good use of this unexpected privacy.  
Quickly, he put a candelabra from his nightstand onto the desk, unscrewed the inkpot, and began to write.

Dearest cousin,   
I’m sorry for the long gaps between our letters, though I believe you’ve been at least as busy with your affairs as I had been with mine here, in Norfolk. Please, pass my regards onto your parents the next time you visit home. I truly hope your meeting with Mrs. Fawcett had been a successful one and plenty of good came out of it. You have my unwavering support, as you already know.   
As for me, here in Rhye Hall, I must admit

Subtle knock on the door startled him. Hastily, Brian hopped back under the duvet.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Roger... Please, let me in.”

Brian’s heart was beating so hard he worried it could crush his ribs, when he called with a strangled voice: “Enter!”

The door squeaked, and Roger slipped inside. He was dressed for the bed, wearing the same velvet robe Brian had already known from before.

“I was hoping I would catch you awake,” Roger said quietly, addressing the carved wooden leg of the bed. “Please, don’t worry, I’m here to talk, nothing else.”

Brian slowly nodded, though instinctively he pulled his covers higher. “Come in.”

On the invitation, Roger made several steps closer, and stayed awkwardly in the middle of the room. To Brian, he seemed somehow even younger than before. Was it the heavy robe, the candlelight, or the nervousness in his angelic face... he couldn’t tell. It made the butterflies in his stomach flutter with warmth though.

“I... I hope everything’s to your liking here,” Roger vaguely gestured, smiling nervously. 

“Well...,” Brian looked around and replied with all seriousness, “it’s not a drenched, rotting shack but I suppose it’ll do. For now.”

Roger giggled. “I’ll gave one built for you on the courtyard, if you wish, so you don’t have to run that far next time.”

“My own palace. I’m touched,” Brian smiled and patted a spot on the mattress next to him. “Please, sit, if you want to.”

After a small moment of hesitation, the invitation was accepted.

“I see you’re writing a letter,” Roger stated, as he nestled comfortably by Brian’s side, his legs hanging down to the floor. “Whom to?”

Brian glanced on the desk and then back at Roger. “To my cousin, Anita,” he explained. “She lives in London and... well, she’s kind of the only one of my family who kept in touch after... I finished my studies.”

“She must be a very special woman,” Roger tried to sound casual, but he did a terrible job at hiding his interest.

“I actually hoped to marry her,” Brian teased him with a smile, “a long time ago.”

Roger shrugged. “I suppose I should be sorry it didn’t work out for you two, but forgive me, I just can’t find the sympathy.”

“I’m shocked,” Brian chuckled, offering Roger a chocolate out of his box. “She was the one who broke the deal, actually.”

“She found someone else?”

“Not someone, something. I remember the day she walked into the salon and announced she refused to marry until the women in this country had the same rights to decide about their lives as men. At the time, I already started to realize my...,” Brian searched for the proper word, “...eh, interests, so I didn’t exactly protest her decision. She thanked me for being so progressive and understanding.”

Roger giggled. “I knew it. You’re a saint, Brian. So, where’s she now?”

“In London, campaigning for the women’s suffrage, from what she writes, working on some bills they want to present to the Parliament.”

“They want to vote, huh?”

Brian propped himself against the pillow a bit. “Why not?” He tilted his head. “It’s a bit obscure, but after all, I know some intelligent women, and many stupid men. And she’s right, they live in this country just as we do. They have right to vote as they see fit.”

“Women will vote exactly the way their husband or priest tells them to,” Roger opposed him, “only few reached the means and education to have their own opinions. First, they’d have to get out of kitchens and learn about politics or economy before we let them decide about it. But I agree with what you said about stupid men. The right to govern should come from an ability to make a good choice, not birth, sex, or wealth.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect to hear that from someone like you.”

“You literally licked my arse, but it’s my political views that shock you? Please, Brian.” Roger took another chocolate and pressed it on Brian’s lips, so it melted a little leaving a sweet mark. “I recommend “The Soul of Man under Socialism” to your attention. Dear Oscar made many interesting observations.”

“Oscar?”

“Oscar Wilde, love,” Roger replied with a smile. “A Woman of No Importance, An Ideal Husband, The Importance of Being Earnest... That one.”

“I know who Oscar Wilde is,” Brian protested, “it’s just...,” he looked away a bit and got silent for a moment.

Roger looked at him in worry. “What is it?”

“I admire you,” Brian finished the sentence weakly, “I mean... you have something to say just about everything and I feel so... inadequate.”

“Inadequate?” Roger repeated incredulously and touched Brian’s cheek to turn him face to face. “You, Brian May, the cleverest man I’ve ever known, a man who reads an incomprehensible science journal as his bedtime story? Inadequate?”

“Every book I’ve mentioned, you’ve already read,” Brian explained desperately, “plus several others from the same author, including his biography. You know geography, politics, nature, you speak languages, you recite poetry, you play chess, train dogs, ride horses, you play instruments, you can speak for hours about types of wine, you... I mean, God... I just feel I have... no room to impress,” Brian mumbled the last few words, his cheeks pink.

“I’ve had time to learn,” Roger said softly, averting his eyes. “Sometimes it feels... I’ve had too much of it.”

“You’re younger than me, Roger.”

“I’ve been sick a lot. And then... I couldn’t do much but read about the world around.”

Brian remembered what Roger had told him about his experience with death and shivered. The stars from outside now seemed to be reflected by the blond’s wide eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered and touched Roger’s hand, “so sorry.”

“Is that why you ran away?” Roger asked softly, and his voice sounded strained. “Because you feel inadequate? Brian, my love... you have no idea how much you mean to me. Every morning, the moment I open my eyes, I feel happier only because I know I get to see you again. Every minute I want to spend making up thousands of ways to keep you happy. You’re so... perfect. So pure, so... full of life. I wish I had a strength to send you away.”

Brian let out a whiny sound and whispered: “Why do you say that? Please, if it’s what I’ve done-”

“It’s not you, you stupid idiot, it’s me!” Roger screamed and hit the mattress in frustration. “Can’t you see? You’re too good for me, way too good! You don’t deserve to be stuck with me – and with all the shit that goes with it!” 

Brian sat up flabbergasted, and watched how tears fell from Roger’s wide, desperate eyes. 

“I can’t stop wanting you,” Roger sobbed, “and I can’t... I can’t make myself to... God...” He hid his face in his hands. “I love you,” he whimpered, “more than anything. I want you to be with me. I want to live with you, I want... everything from you. And even if I offer all I have... it’s never enough, not even close. You’re not the inadequate one.” 

After a moment of tense silence, Brian touched Roger’s back and stroked it gently, feeling it shake with sobs. What Roger said shocked him... and shook him to the very marrow of his bones.

“What you said in that shack,” Brian whispered, “about kissing me hard... just to let me rest my head in your lap moments later... It’s not a one-sided feeling. When I see you... I wish I could kiss your tears away, just like that, and I want to know what caused them. Roger...,” he urged, “please, tell me about yourself. You know everything about me already... I need to know you.”

Roger exhaled shakily. He no longer cried, but the trails of former tears were still wet on his face.

“Lie with me,” Brian asked and pulled a belt of Roger’s robe away, “please, come to me.”

“Just... just for a minute,” Roger agreed reluctantly and slipped under the covers to Brian, “I came to talk, and I mean it. Nothing else.”

Brian drew Roger closer, the body pleasantly cool in the heat, and tried to ignore his chest shivering with desire for a kiss, at least a kiss... 

“Just ask any question,” Roger sounded resigned and closed his eyes as if accepting his fate, “and I’ll answer.”

So... here it was. Brian pressed a quick kiss in Roger’s hair. “Thank you.”

“Ask the questions.”

“Ehm...,” inside his head, Brian quickly ran to the imaginary list he made for himself, “so... your surname.”

Roger opened his eyes in surprise. “Taylor. What about it?”

“Nothing... but the Taylors of Rhye Hall died out in 1845. So... who are you?”

“We didn’t, in fact,” Roger sighed, “it was all... back then... quite nasty. As I’ve heard.”

“So, what happened?”

“Michael Taylor,” Roger frowned, “had an heir, but... something happened to the boy. And the old man just couldn’t accept his son being, well... changed. He should’ve been happy, but he called it a Devil’s work. So, he faked his son’s death, arranged a funeral, while the boy had been locked in the attic. For three bloody months, dead to the world, until his father freed him by dying himself. Choked on his own bile, undoubtedly.”

“Did his name start with R?” Brian asked. “I saw that grave in the crypt.”

Roger swallowed. “Yes, eh... Reginald.”

“And he’s... he must be your grandfather then.”

“It’s a direct lineage. Even though the estate went to others. As for me... I lived here all my life, a bit boring, really. Except the three years in cavalry.”

“Cavalry?” Brian repeated, surprised. “You served in the cavalry?”

“10th Royal Hussars,” Roger grinned, “Prince of Wales's Own. Good times. But it came to an end quite quickly... And now I’m taking care of John.” He smiled sadly and let his head rest on Brian’s shoulder. “It’s strange, isn’t it... how life’s treating us. Now you know me. Is there anything else on your mind?”

“One thing,” Brian admitted carefully. “Something you said in the shack.”

Roger chuckled. “I said many things there I recall. Which one is it?”

“You said you already paid the price for being what we are,” Brian carefully watched Roger’s face, “what did you mean by that?”

The smile faded again. “Oh, that...,” Roger looked away and nervously clutched the covers, “yes, I... I used to have a friend. A very special friend, understand.”

Brian nodded. “I see.”

“He was my first,” Roger continued, “and... we had to hide, but... it was perfect,” his face lit by an inner smile as he remembered, “he was perfect. An artist, so handsome and funny... and the kindest and most loving soul I’ve ever known. I loved him... and he loved me even more.” Roger looked at Brian with a worry in his face, but his expression comforted him.

“What happened?” Brian asked softly. “Was he arrested?”

“He died,” Roger said flatly, “a long time ago. Because of me.”

Brian exhaled. “Roger, I’m so... how?”

“Because of a pneumonia. I did a stupid, stupid thing and it should’ve been me... but...”

“Don’t say that,” Brian hugged Roger closer and kissed his forehead, “he didn’t die because of you. Pneumonia isn’t anybody’s fault.”

“It was mine, back then,” Roger argued desperately. “It was in the winter. We went to Norwich to celebrate I don’t even remember what, it doesn’t matter now. There is a secret club, a place for men of... our taste. We got drunk, danced, kissed... we got out in the middle of the night and headed to the Maid’s Head. And I... we were just so happy and... I forgot myself... and kissed him in the middle of the street.”

“Oh, God,” Brian whispered. “And someone saw you?”

Roger sighed and clutched the blanket even more. “There was a group of drunkards, I think six or seven, and when they saw two men kissing...,” Roger shivered, “they’ve beaten us... really, really badly. I remember I couldn’t even move without crying in pain, there was blood everywhere... And when they finished, they threw us on a pile of garbage behind the pub. We couldn’t move... and the night was freezing. It took hours for somebody to find us.”

“Pneumonia,” Brian mumbled. “I’m so sorry something like this had happened to you. I wish... I wish I could do something, bring him back to make you happy. He must’ve been very special.”

“I’m not grieving, Brian,” Roger said softly and cupped his cheek, “I did, for a long time... but he wanted me to move on. In fact... he was quite insistent. And I’m positive he’s still around... making sure I won’t give up.”

Brian smiled. “I’m sure he is.”

The light of dying candles filled the room with a soft light and blurry shadows, as the two men just lay in the bed, enjoying each other’s company.

“I should go,” Roger whispered.

“Stay.”

“I should-”

“Stay, please,” Brian mumbled and blindly pushed some chocolate in Roger’s mouth. “I just... I don’t want this moment to end.”

“There can be more of these, if you want.” Roger propped himself on his elbow to lean over Brian. “What do you say?”

Brian pulled him for a soft kiss. It tasted of chocolate, and the naked skin under his fingers felt warm. He smiled at the tiny mewl Roger made.

“You were right in one thing,” Brian whispered, “there’s just you and me now. I... want to be with you. I want us to feel good together. I want to touch you where you always wanted to be touched, I want to kiss what needs to be kissed, I want to see you fall apart on my fingers, I want you to lose yourself... and when we’re done, I want you to need it again and again and again, because there’s no one in the world who could ever do you the way I can.”

Roger giggled. “What happened to the shy virgin I knew?”

“I left him in that shack,” Brian replied and kissed the tip of Roger’s nose, “I was afraid... afraid you don’t mean it when you say you love me but... somehow... I’m not anymore. I mean, only time will tell, but now I have you here, and I want us to be together. To be happy. I want to make you happy, Roger.” A short bashful glimpse ran over his face when he looked right into Roger’s eyes and spread his legs in invitation.

Roger’s eyes widened in surprise and arousal. “Brian... you want to...?”

“I want to,” Brian nodded and bit his lip, “I just... would you... I’ve never... will it hurt?”

Hastily, Roger climbed on top of him and their lips met in a passionate kiss. 

“Don’t worry, my love, I trained many lanky foals such as yourself,” he smiled, “I know how to go slow. And I will.”

Brian’s hands traced his lean body and his eyes fluttered shut in bliss. “Roger...”

“I’ve got you,” Roger pressed one quick kiss on his forehead, “just a little treat to begin with.”

He slid under the blanket and before Brian could realize what was going on, he gasped in surprise when Roger’s mouth closed around his cock.

It took a long time before Roger finally left the bedroom. A thin line of dawn already shone on the eastern horizon.


	10. Of Leeches and Men

First rays of sunlight illuminated the luxurious bedroom, reflecting on all the shiny surfaces, making them seem like on fire. The sky outside cleared out to be blue and calm for the day. With the overall quiet of the world around, it created a picture of calm and serenity.

Brian glanced outside and smiled. He woke up some time ago already, feeling happy, relaxed, and pleasantly sore in certain areas. Now, fully dressed, he was out of bed, sitting at his desk, and diligently worked on the missive he had started yesterday.

_Dearest cousin,_  
_ I’m sorry for the long gaps between our letters, though I believe you’ve been at least as busy with your affairs as I had been with mine here, in Norfolk. Please, pass my regards onto your parents the next time you visit home. I truly hope your meeting with Mrs. Fawcett had been a successful one and plenty of good came out of it. You have my unwavering support, as you already know._  
_ As for me, here in Rhye Hall, I must admit I’m facing certain unexpected situations, and to be completely honest, those are the main reason of this letter. Would it be a great inconvenience for you to pay a visit to the London Archives, and do a research for me? I am interested in everything about the history of Rhye Hall, especially the last century, its owners, other inhabitants, and all their family ties. I would also ask you about more detailed look on some specific people, namely Roger Taylor, John Deacon, and Frederick Mercury._  
_ I know I am putting a very time-consuming task in front of you but believe me that I wouldn’t wasn’t it necessary. I cannot specify how much I depend on it, but the longer I think, the more I feel a sense of secrecy in the air. Something is kept from me here, I know it, and you, dearest Anita, are my only hope for either confirming or dismissing the suspicions._  
_ With my undying friendship, forever yours,_  
_ Brian_

He sighed, folded the letter and sealed it in the envelope. He wasn’t happy to do this, no, not at all, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a physical proof nothing was going on.  
It’s not like Roger would lie to him, never that, Brian was certain... But there can be million different reasons why would the young aristocrat decide to keep something to himself.  
No malevolent intentions, just a little failure of communication, nothing more.

With already familiar knock on the door, Deborah didn’t even wait for an invitation and entered.

“Good morning Mr. May. Your hot water. Oh,” she stayed surprised in the middle of the room, “you’re awake.”

“Awake, dressed, fresh, and shiny,” Brian smiled and got up, “would you mind sending this letter with the morning post?”

“Sure,” Deborah shoved the envelope in her apron and started with cleaning the cold ashes left from yesterday. “So... have you been listening before I came?” She asked with her head deep in the fireplace.

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Listening? Listening what?”

She straightened up on her knees and turned around, her stare incredulous. “And you’re living in a neighbouring room! Are you deaf or what?”

“John?” Brian quickly reached for his sack coat, so he could make himself decent before rushing off to his patient. “Something happened?”

“Calm down. Mr. Taylor’s there,” Deborah stopped him, “and believe me, you don’t want to get between them. God, I don’t think I’ve heard such an argument since Mr. Taylor kicked the last carer out of the house.”

Brian frowned and let his hand slip from the door handle. Of one thing, he could now be sure – the theory he would be able to hear John through the wall was false. He couldn’t hear a thing.

“Argument?” he inquired. “They’re arguing in there? Why?”

“Well,” Deborah grimaced with a hint of glee. Some of the ashes fell from her dustpan on an expensive Persian rug. “From what I know, it might have something to do with certain someone moving into a certain bedroom.”

“Oh God,” Brian whispered, and a cold wave ran over his spine. Of course, this was Roger’s idea, but Brian expected John had agreed as well. But if not...

Deborah giggled upon seeing Brian’s ashen face, got up and brushed off her knees.  
“Take a glass,” she invited him, “you can still listen through the wall.”

“I can’t listen to private conversations!” Brian protested. “What are you thinking?”

The maid leaned against the fireplace with an acerbic smile on her face. “Oh, please, St. Brian, eavesdropping is far behind the most despicable sins happening in this house. Mr. Taylor pays well, that’s the reason I’m staying here, keeping my mouth shut, but sometimes enough is enough.”

Here it is, Brian thought sombrely. This could have been his sanctuary with Roger, perhaps, but there is no way how to keep anything from the servants – and did he really want to be surrounded by people who despised him? Did she know about the night Roger spent in this room?

“... because, even if they were the same age, that wouldn’t matter!”

Brian realized he missed most of her proclamation. “Excuse me?”

She frowned. “I’m saying that Roger Taylor will burn in hell for his sins, and his grandfather with him. I’m a good girl. A good Catholic girl. They’re abominations in front of the Lord.”

“Roger and John?” Brian was confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Incest!” Deborah gesticulated wildly. “A grandson and a grandfather! It’s a disgusting, pederastic incest, and God with strike them down for it.”

“And out!” Brian ordered sharply and nearly shoved the maid out of the door. He had enough for that day. “Out, and if I hear you talking nonsense like that again- What on Earth are you thinking?”

“So, you don’t believe me, huh?” Deborah snorted. “You really are blind.” And banged the door shut behind her.

Brian’s head was spinning. What did that mean? How could she even think...? Surely Roger was a very devoted grandson, but there was no indication anything else...

Oh, shush, he scolded his own mind. Who knows what she saw and what conclusions she made? Bored maid with an overactive imagination, nothing else.

But now... should he go or stay? If John and Roger really argue, neither would appreciate an interference. Or should someone stop them? After all, John is a very old, fragile man, and strong emotions can’t be good for him.

Brian hated himself for this, but with new found determination he took a glass, put it on the wall between his and John’s bedroom, and pressed his ear on it.  
Yes, now he heard it, quietly, but he did. Roger’s voice clearly, John’s here and there.

“... hardly that loud, John, and I already told you- ... then what am I supposed to do?”

Roger sounded upset, but thankfully he kept his calm, and his tone, though angry, wasn’t unkind.

“I’m not dead yet,” John rasped bitterly.

“John, my dear John, of course not! Please, you can’t think, can’t think that I-”

“In the room next door!”

“Why does that make a difference? God dammit, John!” Now Roger lost his temper, anger leaking through the words. “You forced me to bring him here, you urged me to get closer to him, you knew damn well sooner or later- you can’t throw this on me, John Deacon! This was your choice, remember? You knew this and you chose this!”

“No! You’re a bloody leech, Roger! Ungrateful leech sucking the life out of me-”

“John, no!” Roger gasped. “No, no, no, no, no! You can’t say that, please, please don’t say that!”

Brian sighed and placed the glass back on the table. He didn’t want to hear more, he already felt terrible for causing this squabble in the first place. Roger would never send back to the attic, he was too chivalrous for that, Brian thought. He better suggests it himself. Yes, that’s what he’ll do.  
He waited several more minutes, sitting silently. The argument must be surely over by now, John wouldn’t be able to keep it up long. It was time for Brian to walk into the fiery pit.

Just when he stepped out of his room, John’s door suddenly flung open, and Roger stormed out.

“ROT IN HELL!” he screamed in John’s presumptive direction. “THAT’S RIGHT, I SAID IT!”

“Roger!” Brian exclaimed, grabbed the other man’s shoulders and shook him. “You can’t talk like that! Enough!”

Surprisingly, Roger just swallowed and obeyed, while Brian took the moment to close the bedroom door.  
“Brian... you heard...?”

“Some of it,” Brian nodded, and his stare softened when he realized the state Roger was in. Still dressed in the nightshirt and the black robe, he didn’t seem to get any sleep at all, blond hair sticking out in all directions, eyes swollen and tired, face red and puffy after a long cry. Salty traces of tears still adorned his cheeks.

“What happened?” Brian asked while stroking Roger’s back. “If it’s about the bedroom... I can move back upstairs...”

“It’s not about the room,” Roger interrupted him tiredly, “it’s just... John... he’s so difficult about this. I hate to see him upset, but I can’t... I won’t give you up. Not just for now, not ever.”

“John is your grandfather and a very old, very sick man, we should try our best to comply with his wishes.”

“You stay in that goddamn room, Brian!”

Brian sighed. It wasn’t easy to balance the two of them. “Very well,” he conceded, “but if John doesn’t want us to be together and meet... in a biblical sense... then we won’t. At least not that close to him. We will try to be more discreet, we can do that.”

Roger nodded and nuzzled against Brian’s chest. “I just wish I could make him happy again,” he sniffled, “but I can’t. As if the only point of my existence is to make people miserable.”

“You make me happier than I’ve ever been,” Brian assured him and softly kissed his head, “and as for John... I’m sure he loves you, no matter what terrible things were said today.”

“Yes, he loves me,” Roger whispered, “still... And that’s the biggest problem.”

“Our parents and grandparents always love us,” Brian hummed, “even though it can hurt. He means well, they always do. What about you go wash your face, change your clothes, have a nap and breakfast? I’ll take care of John and then we talk.”

“Kiss me?” Roger looked up with such a plea in his eyes Brian couldn’t refuse.

“Go change,” he whispered when they finally parted. “I’m busy.”

John seemed to be exhausted by the argument. Brian found him lying motionlessly in crumpled sheets, his eyes partly closed. He looked so pale and fragile, with that paper-like skin and uneven laboured breaths.

“Good morning, John,” Brian called softly and touched the old man’s hand. “It’s Brian here. Are you ready to wake up?” He noticed John clenched his fists so hard the nails were digging deep into the skin.

“You had a good night,” John mumbled. “I... heard you. Not that... that dead yet. I can l-live. And I w-will live...” His lower lip trembled. “I...”

“Shhh,” Brian sat down on the edge of John’s bed and took his hand, “it’s alright, John. I understand... I know it’s hard for you, I know... But whatever comes, we’re here with you. And we won’t leave you.”

John let out a sound that could be a cough as well as a chuckle. “He can’t leave me. Not yet.”

“He’ll never leave you,” Brian emphasized. “Roger is a good man. Would you like him to sit with you for the day?”

After a short hesitation, John nodded.

Brian smiled. “I’ll tell him once we’re done here together. He’ll be happy he can do something for you. Now, I take the water, the cloth and a clean nappy and we’ll make you a bit more comfortable, what do you say?”

John said nothing, which Brian had to take as a yes, and began the morning routine. He commented on every step, knowing John got easily confused in the process. It shocked him to realize how much weight the old man had lost in the course of the last two weeks. Even though he had to lift and turn John much more than he used to, he managed easily. It felt like carrying a sack of bones or a newly hatched bird. John’s skin, though Brian tried to be as gentle as he could, was covered in bruises, as the old man got hurt easier than a ripe peach.

“... and you’re all clean. Now I’ll help you into a fresh nightshirt, can I?” He waited for a reaction, but when he got none, Brian proceeded anyway, trying to ignore the tears in John’s eyes. At least for now, even if his heart ached for him. He kind of understood. During their long talks, Roger mentioned quite a few things about his grandfather. John seemed to be an active man until recently. With his grandson he shared a lot of avocations, especially the music, dogs and horses. He even took an interest in mechanical devices and according to Roger he could spend days fidgeting around clockworks. From this kind of life... becoming reliable on others to help you get fed and changed, Brian swallowed in discomfort, that must be truly unbearable.

Finally, all was done and settled, and Brian propped John on several high pillows, so the old man could eat the semolina porridge Deborah had brought.

“Do you want to hold the spoon?” Brian asked softly. “John? Are you with me? We’re going to have a breakfast.”

It took quite a while and Brian worried John might’ve fallen asleep again, but then John opened his eyes and slowly reached for the utensil.

“Please?” he whispered.

Brian gave it to him immediately, but at the same time he kept supporting the shaky hand so John could manage as much as possible.

“You know,” Brian sighed silently, “I’m your carer, that’s my reason to be in this house. So... I just want you to know that’ll never change, no matter what. I will always be here to help you, in any way you may need. Even if there are things... things you hate me for.”

John pushed the spoon away and his eyes met Brian’s. “I don’t hate you,” he mumbled, “I pity you.”

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful. Roger spent most of it by John’s side, while Brian politely kept his distance, making use of the house’s library. They switched only when John needed something in Brian’s line of duty, such as feeding, cleaning, and changing. Roger, somehow, couldn’t stomach that.

In the evening, Roger insisted on staying with John and wished Brian good night. So... here he was.

Brian shifted uncomfortably in the overly spacious bed, missing Roger in it. Which was ridiculous, he thought, he spent his whole life sleeping alone and after one night... there was something addictive in the feeling of falling asleep in an embrace. Arms that are warm, eager and loving...  
He sighed. The room was dark, all the candles shut, and yet... he felt strangely awake. Was it the full moon? Perhaps? But the draperies were already drawn, not a ray of moonlight coming in...

With a frustrated grunt, Brian got up. This was getting simply ridiculous, lying in the bed, completely awake, for hours. If the god of sleep decided to deny him the pleasure tonight, Brian might as well do something intelligent with that time. Decisively, he put on a dressing gown, and headed to the library. In the afternoon he had started an interesting novel and was quite eager to find out what happened next. Mr. Rochester just proposed to Jane, and Brian, being a romantic heart as he was, kind of hoped to read more about their happiness in upcoming marriage.

He held his breath and opened the library door, slowly... very slowly... no ghost appeared. Good. Calmed, Brian lit several candles next to the most comfortable chair, and eagerly opened the book.

The big clock in the hallway just hit two in the morning when Brian groaned in frustration and threw the book back on the table. All candles burning around got significantly shorter and the melted wax was getting all over the candelabra, dripping on the smooth surface of the table under them.  
Mr. Rochester was already married! Brian frowned. How could he deceive Jane like that? Stupid Bertha Mason. Stupid book. Brian decided he could go back upstairs and make an attempt to fall asleep, life seemed to be way too full of disappointments anyway, even in novels.

The staircase creaked as he walked up. The omnipresent wailing wind ran through the long corridors, caressing draperies. Brian was already used to it, he’d more likely to notice its absence. Determined to get a good sleep during the few hours left, he headed to his door, when suddenly - a sound came out of John’s bedroom.  
What was happening? Was John in trouble? Did he have an attack? A stroke? Was he in pain? Quickly, Brian leaped towards John’s door and yanked them open.

He froze at the sight. Even his heart felt no longer beating and not a single thought ran through his mind. He could only stand there motionlessly, staring at the scene in front of him.

The blanket was crumbled and torn aside, along with John’s nightshirt. The old man lay naked, only propped with pillows from behind. Roger, in all his youthful beauty, was on his knees, leaning over the old man, pressing John’s palm against his own hard erection, getting himself off. Both men were sweaty and panting, lost in the moment of their intimacy.

“Oh, John, my John...,” Roger moaned, leaned further for a long, passionate kiss, and rubbed himself faster, “... you’re beautiful, my John, God, love you, love you so much, your mouth, your hands...”

There was no shame, no hesitation in their connection. This wasn’t the first time, not even the second time, that much was clear. John’s face contorted in a mixture of happiness and exhaustion, but he kept doing his best, not taking his longing eyes off Roger for even a second. Would he do it, he could see his carer, staring at them from the door with all the blood gone from his face.

Roger’s erratic breaths got quicker and quicker as he approached his climax, and finally, he came in a silent cry, head fiercely thrown back in pure pleasure. His come spurted all over John’s hand, chest and mouth.

Brian screamed.

Time stopped.

Both men on the bed turned to him. The blue eyes met the hazel ones.

And then Brian turned around and ran. His head in utter and complete terror and confusion, he ran down the staircase, and through the entrance hall and out.

“Brian!” Roger shrieked somewhere behind him. “Wait! Please! Brian, Brian!”

The night was colder than he expected, and wind ran coldly under his nightshirt. He didn’t care, he didn’t think, he just knew he had to get out of there. Now. As fast as possible. His slippers slowed him down, so he just kicked them off, running across the courtyard and onto the driveway barefoot.

Roger sprinted after him, as fast as he could, but Brian had the advantage of a slight head start, longer legs and shorter nightshirt. The blond just threw his velvet robe on, and now he kept tripping over the edging.

“Brian! Please, come back, I’ll- I’ll tell you everything! Please! Please! Brian, love!”

Brian was deaf to him, blind to him, to him and everything around, like a panicked runaway foal, unable to stop even if he wanted to. Hot tears were stinging in his eyes.

Suddenly, he saw something that made him stop. The panic that had forced him to run before somewhat even increased, turning into a cold, paralysing dread.  
In the middle of the road, some twenty feet ahead of him, there was a tall, silvery white figure, standing motionlessly, looking straight at him. The ghost... the ghost from the library...

Somewhere behind him, Brian felt Roger stopped as well, while the apparition in front of them flew closer, gently hovering some thee feet above the ground. Even the wind around suddenly stood still, not a leaf moved.

“I know you...,” Brian managed to squeeze out. “Frederick Mercury? Freddie?”

The spectral figure slightly giggled before nodding. White stare pierced right through Brian, sending deep shivers down his spine.

“Let me go,” Brian whispered. “Step aside... please... let me go.”

Freddie shook his head and pointed back towards the house. The message was clear enough.

Brian didn’t move. In his mind, suddenly, he got beyond this, beyond shock, beyond fear. He was just tired. He had enough. “No,” he mumbled firmly, “not going back... Let me go.”

Freddie flew even closer and stood still, not even three feet in front of the living man. Brian could feel another wave of freezing air and a smell... stuffy, earthy smell... the smell of beyond.

“Roger sleeps with John!” Brian exclaimed furiously. “I saw them! With his own grandfather, I saw them! I saw them! Let me go!”

The ghost tutted and pointed back to the house, apparently unphased by the revelation.

“Stop it,” Brian retorted. “I’m not going back.”

Freddie just tilted his head and kept staring at Brian. There was sadness and pity in that look. And then... he flew straight through him.

Brian didn’t have even a moment to scream. Freezing white darkness embraced his senses, and the whole world around... was no more.  
His cold, unconscious body collapsed in the mud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Brian reads in the library, for those who didn't recognize, is Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë.  
Very short summary: Young governess Jane comes to Thornfield Hall, home of rich and mysterious Mr. Rochester, with whom they fall in love and they are to be married, when it turns out Rochester already is married to Bertha Mason, a mad woman locked up in the attic.


	11. White Egret, I love you so

"Blankets, I need more blankets, and where is that damned heater?"

Sharp commands in that high, strained voice kept digging into Brian's mind, and disturbed the slow nothingness he got accustomed to. It bothered him. Make it stop...

"He's still so cold!"

Cold? Brian thought about it. Was he cold? The answer didn't come straight away... but yes, he felt cold. Really, truly cold, deep inside his bones.   
The voice sounded worried. Brian supposed it was kind of nice, someone worried about him.   
His head felt funny, spun around and properly shaken. Something... it unsettled him... something felt wrong. Almost as if all his knowledge, all his memories, ... got locked. Still in place, he felt them, but out of reach. He tried to get there... he knew there was something... something important on his mind...

"... Bertha Mason...," he mumbled hazily.

"He spoke!" someone exclaimed. "He's waking up! Brian, love, look at me, talk to me!"

Soft, warm fingers touched his hand and caressed it gently. He liked the sensation.   
Love... Roger! That was Roger's voice!  
Brian never knew how hard it could be to open his eyes. It drained him more than he expected. Sharp light hit with a white blinding pain that cut through his head like a blade, making his stomach twist and cramp. 

He whimpered. “Hurts...”

“I’m so sorry, Brian, love,” Roger whispered, “stay awake, look at me, look at me!”

An unfair torture, Brian thought, but he tried to comply, a stream of tears running down his cheeks. His reward turned out to be the familiar, angelic face leaning towards him with fear written all over it.

"... Bertha Mason..." Brian repeated, slowly falling back asleep.

Roger raised his eyebrows. "Bertha Mason? The Jane Eyre's character? What do you mean, love? Brian! Don't sleep now, stay awake!"

Both the cutting sharpness in his eyes and the headache started to disappear.

"Roger...," Brian mumbled. 

"Yes," Roger whispered and squeezed his hand, "it's me, my sweet Brian... It's Roger..."

Brian exhaled in relief. His stomach still bounced on the water, but the world seemed clearer every second. He was back in his room, tucked neatly in the large bed, under what seemed to be not only his blankets, but all the blankets this house possessed. The fireplace was lit, and flames reached high. Roger's face was flushed and sweaty, but he didn't order anyone to open the window or put out the fire. Brian was grateful for that.

"Roger," he whimpered, "cold... I'm so cold..."

"I know, my love," Roger mumbled and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead, "they’ll bring you some tea while Deborah fills the heaters. We'll take care of you, I promise."

"What time is it?"

“Three in the morning,” Roger said quietly and drew his hand back from Brian’s, “you gave us all quite a fright.”

“A fright...,” Brian hesitated, “I... frightened you? Why? How did I get here?”

“What do you remember?”

“I... remember...,” Brian wanted answer immediately, but then he just nervously ran fingers through his hair and turned back to Roger, new tears in his eyes, “... I don’t know!” 

“Try, love,” Roger urged him.

Brian sighed and closed his eyes, trying to recall... what was it... something important, he remembered sadness, anger and shock... he remembered his stomach nearly turning inside out... and white and cold...

“I remember...,” he said quietly, watching Roger’s face, careful and attentive, “... I couldn’t sleep.”

Roger nodded. “Yes, go on.”

“So... I took some candles and went downstairs to the library, to read.” God, it hurt so much... Brian would much prefer just to go back to sleep and throw all the missing memories to the wind... but... Roger wanted this, so that’s what he would do. Remember... “I was reading...,” he continued slowly, “... and I liked it, though... it upset me. A lot.”

“Brontës were never exactly cheery,” Roger smiled. “I’m so sorry, love. I’ll have some happy books brought. So... you read in the library. And then? What happened then?”

“I decided to go back to bed, so...,” Brian frowned and went silent, “... I don’t know then...,” he gasped, “there’s nothing, I don’t know!”

“Brian, try! I need to know what you remember!”

“I don’t know!” Brian cried out. “It hurts, don’t make me, I don’t know anymore, I don’t know! There... there was a door, and a carpet, and... blanket...,” he babbled, trying to grasp the confusing whirlwind in his head, “... a candle... and a proposal and a wedding and Bertha Mason... no, no, that was... the book... I don’t know!” Tears glistened in his eyes as he reached for Roger’s hand desperately. “Tell me what happened,” Brian whimpered, “I don’t know... don’t hurt me...”

Roger sighed. “I... I found you in the entrance hall, under the stairs. You must’ve fallen and hit your head against the floor. That’s how it happened.”

“Fallen down the stairs...,” Brian’s head was spinning so hard he had to catch it. Mr. Hince entered the room with some tea and biscuits.

Roger manoeuvred him to put the tray on Brian’s bedside table. 

“Now, love,” he smiled, “I want you to drink at least two cups. Get something hot in you.”

Brian frowned. “Why... why am I so cold? Roger?”

“Corridors are cold, my love, and you’ve been lying on the ground in your nightshirt. No wonder.”

“I lost my slippers,” Brian recalled and heaved himself up to take the tea and sip on it, “I remember slippers.”

“We’ll find them,” Roger nodded tiredly, “or I’ll get you a new pair.”

“But... why?” 

Brian was confused. Something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t remember... There was running and crying and cold... but... he fell down the stairs.

“Promise me to never wander around so tired, my love,” Roger whispered and took his hand again, “were I to lose you... I don’t think I could take it. I wouldn’t. Promise me.”

Brian slowly nodded. “I promise. And... I’m sorry, I really am. I never meant to scare you like this.”

“You don’t need to apologise. You’re here with me. Just you and me, that’s important.”

“Come to me?” Brian asked with a soft hope, and Roger was more than happy to oblige, slipping out of his robe and under the covers. His embrace warmed Brian better than any blanket ever could. He closed his eyes in bliss while Roger rested his head on his chest.

“I love the sound,” Roger mumbled and snuggled even closer. “I could listen to it forever.”

Brian stroked his back gently, smiling. “My heart?”

“Hmmm... your heart... so strong, so alive... I love it...”

“You know it’s all yours,” Brian whispered and buried his face in Roger’s hair, breathing in the scent of cologne and jasmine soap, relishing in the touch of silk. “All yours... all of it.”

“And you can have anything of mine in return,” Roger mumbled sleepily, “all of it. I love you, Brian. Never doubt that.”

“I’d never. Roger... I love you too.”

Rainy September slowly turned into a surprisingly sunny October. Temperatures dropped for sure, but all the leaves outside started to turn yellow, red and golden, filling the air with a typical earthy smell of autumn.

Brian stayed bedridden, weakened and tired to death after his misadventure, either reading, or watching the nature changing behind his window.   
Roger spent every waking moment with him, leaving John under the care of a new maid he hired from Blackeney. Never in his life Brian felt so looked after, so spoiled, so loved.   
Every time Roger entered his room, he brought a cup of tea, a game of marbles, a new book, a food tray, or a small treat for him. Roger... always there, always ready to talk or not talk, to laugh, or to cuddle in bed. Sometimes Brian worried he had no way of repaying this... but then he realized... there was nothing Roger wanted other than Brian to be happy. The blue eyes lightened every time Brian opened a new present, enjoyed a game or laughed to a joke, and Brian melted. He didn’t even care to hide how smitten he was, shining little brighter every new passing day.  
Once he got stronger, their cuddling once again graduated into less innocent activities, which Brian now enjoyed shamelessly, surprising even Roger with his endurance, eagerness and vigour. Far gone were the early coy touches, Brian starved for what Roger could give him, and their lovemaking turned into a full race of sensuality. They kissed, licked, tasted and devoured, driven by love and an insatiable hunger for pleasures they caused to one another. Dawn often caught them shivering, with their limbs entangled, biting a pillow to muffle their cries of ecstasy.   
After a night like this Brian usually slept until lunchtime while Roger got up and moved next door to be by John’s side, talking to him, reading, or sitting quietly. 

This lasted for about two weeks, when Brian, after a sharp discussion, insisted on renewing his duties as a carer. He felt bad for neglecting his patient like this and, he couldn’t not notice the strain this whole situation put on Roger. The blond seemed slowly getting paler, thinner, and tired, even though he tried to hide it. But Brian knew. Many times, he asked for an explanation, but he could as well talk to a brick wall and get a clearer answer. Roger insisted he was fine and in full health, and just to prove it he went out for a ride, only to return even paler and exhausted. Brian didn’t push any further. 

It was like a strange game between the three men, and none seemed to get a hang of the rules. John kept fading away, his body becoming morbidly gaunt and helpless. He drifted between sleep and waking, and to get some food or water into him was a real struggle. Days when they managed to make John swallow more than a spoon of porridge or a cup of broth Brian considered a victory. It hurt to watch John like this – and it hurt even more to turn around and see Roger standing in the door, tiredly propped against their frame with an unreadable expression on his face.   
It almost felt like, Brian thought, the lives of the two were bound together in a way. What will happen once... no, not once – if, much better word... if one of them is no more?

Sunny afternoon, no different from others this week. Brian just entered John’s bedroom, carrying a little culinary experiment of his. Milk, warm honey, egg yolk and soaked bread crumb, all mixed together into a smooth liquid. Now, he was determined to get it in John, even should he shove it down his throat. Roger was nowhere to be seen.

“John!” Brian called cheerily, sat down by the bed, and gently shook his patient’s shoulder. “I’ve brought a surprise for you.”

His breath hitched for a moment when the old man didn’t move, but then John half-opened his heavy eyes with a soft grunt.

Brian took his hand and leaned closer. “It’s just me, John, don’t worry. We’re going to eat.”

“W-what?”

“Eat,” Brian repeated. “You didn’t have your lunch today, you need to eat something. How do you want to stay strong otherwise?”

It took a while before John understood and let out a soft: “No...”

“John,” Brian insisted firmly, but kindly, “this is not a negotiation, you are going to eat this. Period. Here, look. It’s not even a real spoon what I’m holding, it’s just a teaspoon. Nicely one after another. You can do this, I know you can.”

One spoonful made it past John’s lips, but he held the liquid in his mouth and it just leaked back out. Brian sighed and dipped John’s chin. This was nothing new.

“Very well,” he nodded, “I wanted to be nice, but you’re asking for it, my friend.” The second time, he went deeper, so John could either swallow or choke on it. He chose the former, thank God.

“That’s how I like it,” Brian praised him, “so good, and – oh, no, no, we’re not done, there’s another. Come now, just like this one.”

Someone just entered the room and cleared his throat, but Brian paid him no attention. The steps were too heavy for Roger, so it must’ve been Hince.

“Mr. May,” the butler made himself heard.

“Not now...,” Brian mumbled, and his long finger stroked John’s throat from his chin down to help him swallow a second spoonful.

“But, Mr. May, I-”

“Oh!” Brian groaned in frustration when John jerked at the sound of the butler’s voice and coughed the milk up. “No, no, that’s alright, John, that’s alright... We’ll try again.” He cleaned John’s lips and, finally, turned around to glare at the butler. “So?” 

Mr. Hince showed his best reserved butlery face. “Mr. Taylor is asking you in the green salon once you have a moment, Mr. May.”

Brian nodded. “I’ll be there. Thank you.”

It took about half an hour of endless patience before Brian gave up and John fell asleep. The final score was five teaspoonfuls eaten, six spat out, three choked on, and another three on Brian’s trousers. He quickly considered getting changed, but Roger waited long enough already, so Brian headed directly to the salon.

Out of all the rooms of the lowest floor, the green salon was his favourite. Quite small, compared to the dining hall or the library, but it had a nice old-fashioned touch, caused by the chartreuse pattern on white plastering. Also, wide windows lead directly onto the terrace and supplied a nice scenery of the woods and marshlands.

Roger was already waiting for him. Well, more precisely, Roger was sleeping on a chaise-longue by the window, snoring softly.

Brian tilted his head and smiled. Even the pale skin and deep shadows under his eyes somehow suited Roger, making him more aethereal, angelic. Silently, Brian stepped closer to him, sat down on the cushioned edge, and pressed a long, soft kiss on his lips. First, it looked like nothing happened, but then Brian felt a sneaky hand coming up his back, pulling him closer.

“What a naughty Sleeping Beauty,” Brian teased cheekily. Roger opened his eyes and kissed back, longer and deeper.

“What can I say... somehow you make it so hard for me to control myself...,” he whispered and winked, “...so, so hard for me.” 

Brian let out a quiet moan but he tried to keep balance. “Wait, if we’re doing this, I have to put this cup somewhere...”

Roger let him go and sat up. “A cup of what? God, this looks disgusting.”

“It’s John’s,” Brian frowned, but put the offensive item away. “I made it. It’s not half-bad.”

“I’ll take your word for it, love.” Roger ran his fingers through his hair and jumped up from the chaise-longue. “Now, we have to talk.”

“We’re not...?” Brian nodded towards the furniture and tried to hide the mild disappointment. They weren’t together since yesterday’s evening, and to be honest, the kiss made him quite willing to continue that direction.

Roger shook his head with a smile. “Later, love. I’ve got a present for you.”

Brian chuckled. “And I started to feel neglected already... since the last present, the day before yesterday, that is. I would say you didn’t have to, but...”

“But it would be a waste of words, time, and air,” Roger winked, “you’re a fast learner.” He gave Brian a feather-like kiss on the forehead and gestured to the chair. “Wait here, I’ll bring it.”

Brian sat down obediently and watched the nature outside, until Roger returned, carrying a large plant in a pot. 

He set it on a small table and smiled proudly. “What do you say?”

“What is...?” Brian gasped and got up immediately to have a closer look. “Roger... God, is that...?”

“An orchid,” Roger smiled. “Only the best for you, my love.”

“Oh, God...” He couldn’t describe it in any other way – the flower was simply too beautiful for words. It didn’t look like the orchids Brian saw in books. About twelve inches high, graceful and fragile, it carried eight white blossoms of the most unusual shape – each looked like a perfect little bird with long graceful neck and elegant wings, flying far, far away... Brian was sure he had never seen a flower so rare and beautiful. His throat tightened.

“Habenaria radiata,” Roger whispered, “but they call it White egret flower. It came here all the way from China. Over there an egret represents strength, purity, patience and a long life, they say,” he smiled. “I couldn’t think of anything better for you.”

“It’s... perfect,” Brian whispered. “Just perfect.”

“That makes two of you,” Roger grinned and watched Brian’s cheeks turn a bit pink. “I’ve known since the day we met. You’re the brightest light that ever entered my life, Brian May, and that’s why... why...,” he hesitated, “... we need to talk.”

Brian looked at him attentively and nodded, before leading Roger back to the chaise-longue to sit. He couldn’t miss the suddenly serious expression on his lover’s face, and it worried him.

“What is it, Roger?” he asked softly. “Is something wrong?”

“We need to talk...,” Roger repeated quietly, “... about John.”

That was a surprising topic, but Brian only nodded. “What about him?”

“You’re his carer, Brian. You came here because of that job,” Roger specified, “and you’re doing it perfectly, but... you know sooner or later... and I feel sooner is the answer... the... service will no longer be required.”

Brian swallowed. Roger looked so dejected and small. He tried to come with some comforting phrase, but what could be said. He didn’t want to lie.

“I... I know that,” Brian mumbled, “but I’m still doing my best, I’m trying to do as much as possible.”

“That was never in question,” Roger stopped him, “Brian...,” the deep blue eyes looked in his, “one day he won’t need you anymore – but I will. I can’t imagine... I don’t think I could live without you.”

Brian’s heart sped up. 

“I need you to promise me,” Roger insisted and took his hands urgently, his voice anxious, “I need you to promise you’ll stay... after John leaves.” Roger let go of Brian’s hands again to take something out of his pocket. A simple golden ring, brand new. 

Wave of heat rushed through Brian’s body. “Roger...,” he whispered, “we can’t do that.”

“It’s an oath, the same commitment as any other,” Roger argued, “who cares it’s without God’s blessing? Still, it can be our union. You... and me, one body, one soul, one life. What do you say?”

“Roger...” These words, and the way Roger said them... Brian never thought he would ever hear something like that. And yet, here he was. And a love of his life in front of him. His heart felt like it could explode with happiness.

“That... wasn’t a no,” Roger smiled, before going serious again. “Does it mean you’ll stay with me, richer or poorer, sickness in health, until death do us part? Will you share your life with me, Brian May?”

“Yes, I will,” Brian promised. 

Suddenly a cold wave of dizziness ran through him, so hard and abrupt he had to close his eyes to stop the room from spinning.

“Thank you, love,” Roger whispered and put the ring on Brian’s finger. “Are you alright?”

“Q-Quite,” Brian breathed. “I guess it just... caught me off guard,” he forced a smile, “all of it.”

Roger got up, suddenly looking anxious and... guilty? “You should have some rest, love,” he said, “I’ll be right back, I just... I need a moment.”   
Then he pressed a quick kiss on Brian’s lips and left abruptly, hiding his face, leaving Brian in the salon just with the plant as a company. It was done. He did it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to have a look at the orchid Roger gave Brian, here it is: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pecteilis_radiata


	12. Ashes to ashes

Second half of October brought an early morning freeze, and a cold wind blowing from the north. A small group of people in black overcoats, ignoring the soft sombre drizzle, stood motionlessly around the Taylor crypt while four tall workmen dressed in mourning clothes brought in the heavy coffin made of dark oak.

Roger didn’t cry, not anymore, he just hung on Brian’s arm helplessly, staring blankly right in front of him. The black colour only accentuated his unhealthily pale, sunken face. 

“Man, that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay,” the priest went on and on in his monotonous speech which he undoubtedly knew by heart, while the rain kept soaking his Bible. The smell of rotting autumn leaves filled the air. “In the midst of life, we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased?”

Brian sighed and embraced Roger’s shoulders in a gesture of comfort. There was no one to reprimand them for it after all. He was cold, careworn and honestly worried about Roger. The grief was to be expected but this... this was something else. He noticed Roger’s lips moved as he mouthed with the priest:

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust...”

“Did they dress him well?” Roger mumbled so quietly only Brian could hear. “I didn’t even... didn’t check if...”

“I did,” Brian assured him, “it’s all right, don’t worry.”

“But he’ll be cold...”

“No, he won’t. He’s in a better place now.”

He was met with Roger’s piercing blue stare. “There is no better place, Brian... not for us...”

Before Brian could ask for the meaning of that, the priest raised his voice, apparently annoyed about the lack of attention from the couple.

“Lord, have mercy upon us.”

“Christ, have mercy upon us...,” both Roger and Brian repeated along with others.

Brian couldn’t help but recall that morning, just three days ago. Only three days ago...

Three days ago, soft morning sunshine tickled Roger on the nose and forced him out of his dreams back to the land of men. With a huff he buried himself deeper under the covers and in the warm embrace of his lover. 

“Roger, love?” Brian mumbled silently from behind him.

“Hm?”

“You’re pulling my hair.”

“Aren’t you romantic...,” Roger lifted his head again and felt a soft touch of Brian’s curls as their owner dragged them to safety, “... I suppose you wouldn’t cut them if I asked you to?”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Brian pulled him closer and pressed a light kiss on his neck. “Hmm... you’re cold, come to me...”

But... Roger didn’t, he frowned instead. Something... something didn’t feel quite right. Cold? He didn’t feel cold, more like... the feeling when you’ve been standing in some mountain lake for so long you’ve gotten used to the water and cooled with it. And nauseous, and tired... not sleepy, but downright exhausted, and...

“Brian!” he whispered urgently, eyes wide in terror. “Brian, wake up! Now!” To emphasise his point Roger nudged him with his elbow. “Wake up!”

“Ouch! Roger!” Brian protested. “Do you know how-”

“John!”

“It’s too early to wake hi-”

“Just go!”

Without further arguments, stirred by the urgency in Roger’s voice, Brian got up and wrapped himself in the robe they had thrown on the ground yesterday evening. He was the carer after all. Very quietly he crawled into John’s bedroom and drew a curtain, just a bit. The old man looked like he was sleeping at first, before Brian noticed the strange stillness of the scene.

He touched John’s cheek. It wasn’t cold, not yet, but certainly below the normal temperature, and all the features of the old man’s face stiffened, with eyes and mouth slightly ajar. Brian softly tried to close them, but with little to no success.

Foolish books, he thought, describing dead people as suddenly peaceful or just asleep, the reality was quite different. They are... not there. It’s just an empty shell they left behind, not even “their” body anymore, it was just “a” body... Even the skin felt different to touch.  
Suddenly, a shiver ran down his spine and settled in his stomach. He would be the one to say it to...

Roger anxiously waited on the bed, clutching the covers when Brian returned. Only the former carer’s face said enough for him to make the right conclusions.

“Is he...,” Roger whispered. “Please, tell me, is he...?”

Brian nodded. “He’s dead. It... must’ve happened during the night. I’m so sorry, Roger, truly... I am.”

He said nothing more, standing patiently, while Roger just stared into nothing, trying to accept the news. 

“But...,” Roger’s voice trembled, and his eyes glistened with tears, “... no, but I... I wasn’t with him! I didn’t even get to... oh, God...” He buried his face in his hands. “No, no, no, no... John...”

Brian sighed and went to sit on the bed, taking Roger’s hand in his. “I’m sure John knew whatever you could tell him,” he said quietly, “and he was asleep when it happened. He didn’t even know about it.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Roger rasped tearily and pulled his hand back. “I promised, Brian! I promised I’d never leave him! I promised I would be there, with him. And I haven’t! We’ve been here!” he cried. “Here! Maybe you’ve been just pounding me into the mattress when John... John... oh, God...” His own tears overcame him, and Roger just collapsed in Brian’s waiting embrace.

“I know, my love...,” Brian mumbled, stroking the sobbing man’s back, “I know... But it’s over now. He had a long and happy life and-“

Roger interrupted him with a snotty chuckle, which felt so out of place Brian froze in surprise. And he just continued giggling and straight out laughing in pure hysteria.

“No, he had not!” Roger shrieked and broke in another fit of laughter. “He did not! He could have lived! So much longer, so much, if it weren’t for me!”

“Don’t say that, Roger,” Brian reprimanded him, “you can’t blame yourself just because-”

“Can’t I?” Now Roger looked challenged and jumped out of bed, crossing his arms. “Can’t I? He died because of me, Brian, me! Just because he was so goddam stupid... so stupid... stupid little boy...”

Brian swallowed. “What?”

“What have you done to me!” A new load of tears welled out of his eyes. “What have you done to me, Freddie, what have you made of me! No, no, no...”

He just stood there, crying and shivering, so Brian seized the opportunity to get the situation under control.

“That’s enough,” he grabbed Roger’s shoulders firmly, but his voice remained soft, “I know you’re grieving, and that’s alright, but you can’t blame yourself for things like this. We both knew this would happen, sooner or later. John’s gone now, he let go.”

“It’s just that...”

“I know, I know, Roger. It’s hard, so hard, I know... But I’m here,” Brian reminded him, “I promised I wouldn’t leave you – and I never will.”

“You’re going to die, Brian,” Roger whispered, staring down on the floor, “you’ll die just like John. You’ll leave me. Everybody leaves me, and I... I just... stay put.”

Brian stared at him for a moment, unsure what to do or say. “What about you sit down?” he offered weakly and manoeuvred Roger back on the bed. Behind the window, the morning sun was fully up, colouring the sky with its pink gold. 

Roger didn’t protest, and once he sat down, his fingers started playing with the blanket again. “I wish...,” he whispered tightly, “... I wish I could just... stop losing people. It’s too much, too much to bear... and you, one day...”

“Come here, love,” Brian once again offered him his embrace and pulled Roger close, closer to his heart, with a proud and protective passion. “You won’t lose me, my sweet, you can rely on me. I’m not going to die. Not in a near future anyway,” he added for an accuracy. “But we’ll be together, love. We’ll live together, we’ll grow old together. Just imagine us, sitting side by side on a terrace, wrinkly and grey-haired, feeding pigeons and whatnot, complaining about our aches and joints...”

“That’s your plan?” Roger asked flatly, avoiding his eyes.

Brian smiled. “It is. I see it some... fifty years from now.”

Roger snuggled a little closer and buried his face in his lover’s curls. “You know, I wish that... more than anything.”

That had been a week ago. Since then, life at the Rhye Hall started following a new routine. John’s death left Roger shaken, and Brian respected that, determined to keep his distance and not interrupt the mourning with any inappropriate demands. Soon though, Roger dragged him back into their bed, urgent, hungry and insatiable, as if every day was supposed to be their last. They made love in almost every room of the house, all the positions imaginable, and never before Brian had Roger love him with such a need and vigour and so little joy.  
Roger was afraid, he could see that. But... of what? Brian asked about it several times. And several times Roger opened his mouth to answer, only to quickly change subject to weather, news from the world, or the estate.

First of November. Cold weather turned everything outside grey and unwelcoming, and especially the morning ground frost became a regular occurrence. All the leaves had already fallen and filled the air with the smell of dampness and decay. 

But inside the reliable birch wood happily cracked in the fireplace, feeding the flames, keeping everybody warm and safe from the vagaries of weather. Roger smiled at Brian over his jam before spreading a thick layer on the morning toast and turned a page of yesterday’s Eastern Daily Press. It was a warm, lazy morning so they decided to treat themselves with a breakfast in bed. Brian returned the smile and stretched his legs, careful not to knock over the tray. 

They both loved these mornings but tried not to indulge in them too often to, firstly, according to Roger, keep them special, and secondly, according to Brian, keep some dignity.

“Something interesting, love?” Brian asked and took a huge bite of his own buttered toast. There was also a small mountain of scrambled eggs waiting for him on his plate, as well as fried mushrooms, beans and several more toasts. No idea why, he just felt hungry lately. Those last few weeks anyway. And tired, quite often. Because of the weather, he concluded, and the tension after John’s passing. He wasn’t that bothered, really.

Roger shrugged and turned on a next page. “Princess Wilhelmina got publicly engaged,” he stated without some greater interest, “to some Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin.”

“What country is that?”

“Netherlands,” Roger sipped on his tea and put the cup back to safety. “And listen to this: An explosion at the Tarrant & Company pharmaceutical warehouse destroyed two city blocks in New York, killing 38 people and injuring more than 200. Thirty minutes after a fire began on the upper floors, a blast that levelled the seven-story building at 275 Washington Street, and destroyed eight surrounding stores.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Brian mumbled with his mouth full of eggs. 

Roger chuckled, closed the newspaper and shifted a bit closer to him. “Love?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think I should send for a tailor?”

Brian frowned in confusion. “I mean... if you want to? What clothes do you need?”

“I didn’t mean for myself, love, but for you,” he said seriously. “I watch you eat, and, I mean, we should think ahead.”

“Oh, shut up,” Brian’s ears went a little red while Roger laughed heartily and gave him a soft kiss on a cheek.

“You know I’m just teasing you,” Roger assured him and held out the rest of the toast for Brian to take a bite, “I’ll make sure you have everything your heart desires.” 

His hand crawled sneakily under the covers in the general direction of Brian’s nether regions, before Brian slapped it away.

“Watch the tray, love,” he reprimanded him, and when Roger pouted, he continued quite casually: “Be good until we finish breakfast and then I promise I’ll suck you off with my fist up your arse.”

“Mr. May!” Roger gasped. “I’m shocked!”

“Why don’t I believe you...”

“You’ve met me, that’d be it,” Roger gave Brian a teasing wink before returning to his papers.

The atmosphere changed between them, and an excited anticipation filled the air, despite both men trying to out-do each other in acting casual.

“Britain annexed the Transvaal Colony,” Roger commented. “I think that’s somewhere in Africa...”

“We’ve got more than enough atlases in the library, go look it up,” Brian shrugged, and reached for a small stock of letters Deborah had left on his nightstand.  
One of them was unexpected, and Brian had to smile. He hadn’t written to Anita in ages, nice of her to think of him occasionally.

My dearest Brian,  
I must admit I was surprised reading your letter,

Brian frowned. When was the last time he wrote her? 

it sounded so very urgent. I do hope you didn’t get involved with something wicked, though I cannot imagine how the historical research you asked me to do could have any nefarious reasons. Are you writing people’s essays for money again? Or is it something more interesting after all? Please, dear cousin, don’t be boring.  
But to get to the point. The first mentions of the estate reach to the times of the Conquest, 11th century, but I suspect it might be much older than that. The house itself had been built by Hoste Henley family, and in 1724 sold to sir Charles Taylor. The Taylors kept and enlarged the estate, but the last one, Michael Taylor, died without issue. The man you asked about, Roger Taylor, would be his only son. Born in 1826, he studied on Eton and later joined the cavalry, 10th Royal Hussars. He left the service in 1845 because of his worsening medical condition and that very year, he died at the age of 19. The estate then was inherited by Frederick Mercury, another man from your list. Mercury’s father served in the same regiment as Michael Taylor, and after his death, Taylor took Frederick in to raise him together with his son. Also studied at Eton, the school still owns some of his paintings, if you want to go and have look at them by yourself. From what I can say, the man was no Vermeer, but I enjoyed the style anyway. There was something modern about it.  
From now on, I’m sorry to disappoint you, my dear cousin, because in 1845 the trace ends. I couldn’t find anything after this date, and nothing about the last man you asked about, John Deacon. I know for sure he wasn’t a peer of the other two, neither he ever attended Eton nor any similar establishment. There are no records about him in the military archive as well. I keep searching, but I hope that what I found so far would be of any help to you.  
Yours ever,  
Anita

Brian kept staring at the paper, unable to make a sound, when a sudden flash ran in front of his eyes... and he remembered.  
Everything... his letter to Anita, asking for her help... That night... Roger and John together in bed, body on body... He remembered the horror, the run, the ghost, everything, Roger and John...  
Oh, God...  
Oh, God, dear God... no... no!  
How could he forget that, no!

There was that desk in the crypt. Scratched in furious rage. Now Brian realized what the inscription must have been. 

Roger Taylor  
1826 - 1845  
Rest in peace

1845... More than fifty years ago... Brian’s stomach felt like pressed in an icy fist, when he turned right to have a look at the man in his bed.

Roger took a sip of tea, frowning at the sports column in his papers. “Brian, would you believe it?” he complained loudly. “The last game of the Olympics and Britain loses to France 8–27. They got gold, those frog-eaters!”

“Roger?” Brian rasped quietly, surprised he was even able to make some sound.

“Bloody rugby... yes?” Now Roger finally looked at him, immediately unsettled by Brian’s expression. “What is it, love?”

Without explanations, Brian simply handed him the letter. Roger’s attentive blue eyes flew over the lines of Anita’s messy handwriting.  
He exhaled sharply. “Brian... love...”

Brian couldn’t miss the sudden paleness of his lover’s face. He snatched the letter back and shifted away, even if just a bit.  
“I suppose,” he mumbled unsurely, “we should talk.”


	13. You've Been Had

Several moments passed, as the two men stared at each other. They both knew that whatever would be said at this point was going to twist their little lovesick world forever. None of them wanted to. Both of them... had to. 

The teapot on their breakfast tray was still hot, but that belonged to different world. The “before” world, the world now gone. Brian slowly got up from the bed, still staring at his lover. Roger swallowed and ran fingers across his face in a silent despair.

“So?” Brian asked shakily. “Roger?” He really looked nineteen, he thought suddenly. He never really asked Roger’s age, why, but he always guessed more. But now... looking so small and devastated... 

“You... you have no idea,” Roger whispered hoarsely, “no idea how many times I wanted to tell you, but...”

Brian stared at him incredulously. “What are you saying...,” he gulped. “No, Roger, no... You mean – this is true? You? Born in 1826? Dead?”

“No!” Roger rushed and jumped up as well, so sharply the mattress squeaked. “No, love, I am alive! Look at me! Bones, flesh, blood, beating heart, I’m alive, Brian, just as anybody! I live!”

“Yes, and for how long?” Brian retorted, making a step back.

Roger tried to control his breaths and stay calm. An argument would solve nothing, but then... what would? Was there anything, anything at all... “You’re better in math than me, we both know that,” he smiled weakly, and perhaps it was a shame what painted his face redder. “I’m seventy-four.”

Brian’s eyes widened. So many words he wanted to say, gasp or scream... no. He just stared silently.

“Brian...,” Roger peeped, “please... please, I’m still me...,” he hurried to get around the bed, blocking the way to the door in the process. “Still the same me, love-”

“Don’t call me that!” Brian screamed and grabbed the first hard object he found, which happened to be a letter knife. “And don’t come any closer, I warn you!”

Roger backed down, his face pleading and hurt. “Brian...,” he whispered, “you said we should talk. That’s what I want. Just... talk.”

“What are you?” Brian demanded, made another step back and felt a nightstand digging into his legs from behind. He was cornered. “Tell me.”

“I wish I knew,” Roger chuckled with a soft hint of hysteria. “I don’t know. I don’t know! If I did, maybe I could understand the point of all this, but -”

“Just don’t play the victim here, please,” Brian snapped and squeezed the knife a bit firmer.

“I can tell you what I was,” Roger offered. “I can tell you... everything I know. If you promise to listen to the end.”

Brian said nothing, but he lowered the knife. The offer seemed to be accepted.   
Roger shook his head in resignation and went to pick up his newspapers from the floor, and to fold them gently. Brian felt like everything in his stomach turned into stone. If it wasn’t for the letter, they could’ve been happy, chatting and flirting in this very bed, fussing about the results of rugby, with their love being sure, deep, strong and steady... And instead? What is this even? He was just so utterly confused. Confused and hurt and he wanted to cry. He hated the letter, he hated himself for ever asking Anita. It ruined everything!

“I was... I was born in 1826, here, in Rhye Hall,” Roger started finally, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “Michael Taylor was my father. Only son, so... you can imagine how he saw himself in me. I wanted nothing more than to make him proud... though that was quite difficult to do. He spent a lot of time away; my mother had been already dead. I lived a lonely and not really happy life until... until...,” he smiled a bit, “until Freddie came.”

“Frederick Mercury,” Brian said quietly. He didn’t sit down, and his body stayed tense. “The one who’s buried in your crypt. The ghost who haunts this place and plays piano in the library. That one?”

Roger nodded and continued, still eyeing Brian’s knife: "Yes, Freddie... I still remember the day he stepped out of the carriage, like a prince of my own fairy-tale. And in that moment, he looked at me as well and I... ah, God..."

"Get to the point, " Brian asked. His tone was evened and icy, as he desperately tried to hold all the emotions boiling in his chest. 

Roger sighed. "Well... I got infatuated," he summed up, "and so did he. But it took more than two years before we actually got to act upon it.” He looked away and his fingers twitched nervously. “I can't even remember how many times we asked each other to stop, we tried to chase it away, with girls, but the more we tried to hold back, the more... it was just too much, too painful for us to bear. The strongest desire I've ever felt, at the time at least. And finally... we did it." Roger's voice sounded weak and shaken by emotions. "We promised ourselves to one another and we met... in a biblical sense... on the coast, hidden in the fishermen's shack."

Brian's ears burned bright red and he tried both to breathe and not stab Roger in the face. Love, sadness, fear, betrayal, horror and... jealousy. He noticed the spark in Roger's eyes, when he talked about that man, the man long dead.   
He belongs to him... a voice in Brian's head whispered, if this is true... then he belongs to him, not to you, never to you.

“In the shack, huh?” Brian muttered. “Convenient.”

Roger gave him a side glance, but then he decided to continue instead. "After we finished Eton, I headed to the army while he decided to become an artist. Different paths, I know, but we hoped that one day, one day... but then...," Roger giggled shakily, "God, we were so stupid."

"What happened?" Brian urged him, and lowered his knife, unwittingly invested in the story.

"1845," Roger mumbled, "that's what happened. Do you... do you remember the day I found you in the crypt?"

"I do...," Brian tried his best to avoid Roger' stare. It just... he couldn't bear it. "You told me about... the time you were dying. And later about... your first lover. Who died of pneumonia."

"I said because," Roger interrupted him. "Freddie... died because of a pneumonia. Because of my pneumonia."

"I don't understand."

Roger got up, a pleading expression on his face. "My love..."

"Please,” Brian rolled his eyes, “spare me the sweet talk. You’re an old little liar, I understand that much. Now talk."

"Brian," Roger insisted with a strained expression, as if the name itself hurt, "believe me... what I said to you that night... was true. Almost."

"True? I can think of several details you missed."

"M-Brian, I..." Roger looked on the carpet, "you must understand-"

"Don't tell me what I must!" Brian retorted, his self-control dangerously wearing out - and he could feel it. The utter and complete frustration. "What happened back then, Roger? W-what really happened? I want a direct answer, if you have any respect for me whatsoever."

Roger's body went rigid as he supressed a shiver upon hearing the merciless demand. Strange, after all these years... the pain never got away. Roger exhaled, his hands shaking.  
"In January, I had a short leave," he mumbled, "before our regiment departs to India. Ranjit Singh had died in 1839, and in 1844 Her Majesty finally decided to take over the Sikh Empire."

"I heard something about that war," Brian stated, his patience wearing thin, “considering it began and ended before my parents were even born.”

“You’ve got to have very young parents.”

“Oh, shut up!” Brian groaned. “What happened to you, Roger? Don't try to wiggle out, that's not going to work with me."

Roger threw an icy stare in Brian's direction. "As I said,” he continued, “in January, I was home for holidays before leaving. Freddie and I... I suppose you can easily imagine. Not to see each other for so long and maybe... maybe not ever again... The least we could do was to make a proper goodbye. My father had guests in the house, so we decided to go to Norwich. And... you already know what happened there."

"You got drunk, kissed on the street and got beaten," Brian nodded, unphased. At least seemingly. His eyes were measuring the distance between himself and the door, but whatever tactic he’d choose, Roger would get there first. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to run, but the feeling of no escape narrowed his throat. 

Roger laughed bitterly. "Beaten. Nicely said. They nearly killed us, that's what they did, and threw us on a pile of trash behind the pub. We spent the night and the morning after frozen and bleeding. They even broke my leg and some ribs, so... I was to stay at home and heal before I sail for India.” He shook his head like he himself couldn’t believe the story he was telling. “We actually thought we were lucky that our goodbyes got delayed... I remember Freddie cheering..., and then... I got a fever that just wouldn't go down," Roger shivered at the memory. "My head felt like flying by itself and there was this pressure... on my chest... Father sent for doctors from Norwich, then from London... and they tried, they gave me more medicines than I can remember, they wrapped me in sheets and bathed in ice, they purged me and bled me, ugh. And all the while, Freddie was there. He had to watch how every day I became a little less than the day before. He forced me to fight, he begged me, and I tried, but I couldn't breathe, just... couldn't. I was dying, and he could only watch. I got to know that feeling later."

“I suppose...,” Brian mumbled, “but... how?” 

Roger’s shoulders hunched a bit more as he moved his weight from foot to foot and walked over to the widow, looking out. The new day had already started. So bright and peaceful, almost laughing at him.

“I told you,” he said softly, “the marshlands are a strange land. So old... full of its secrets. They saw so many lives come and go, took so many... in pagan times, this used to be a sacred land, where the Celts made their offering. So many deaths... People died so others could live. And in the meantime, the very line between life and death became blurred. It’s never one or the other, that’s a very new concept, them being opposites, historically speaking. These matters reach long before that. Life and death are older than human understanding, older than civilization, than any religion. So... I suppose it makes sense not to understand why Freddie’s sacrifice was accepted when offered. He’d been always very... resourceful.”

Brian swallowed. “Sacrifice? What sacrifice?”

“His life,” Roger stated simply, but his hand clenched in a painful fist, “for me. I don’t remember much from those days, I only know that suddenly I woke up... and there was no pain, no fever,” he smiled, “I was healthy. And alive. A miracle, surely, it must have been, and when Freddie walked into my room and I ran into his arms once again, it was the happiest moment of my life. I thought I won. Now I’m not so sure.”

“He sacrificed his life for you...,” Brian repeated slowly. His palm felt wet and clammy against the cool metal haft he was clutching.

Roger nodded. “That was the original intention. Just a simple exchange, him for me. But it seems you can’t give your life up, not completely. So, we ended up... sharing. Bonded through life and death, never to be parted. Half for him, half for me. Of course,” he laughed nervously, “there was still my father. A God-fearing man, a good Christian, he wasn’t fond of such miracles. He called it... he called it the Devil’s work, called me an abomination against the sacred laws... he kept repeating I was supposed to die, that for my soul it’d be better if I was dead... So... to save me... he locked me up to the attic, to let me starve.”

“He wanted you to die?” unwittingly, Brian was horrified. “His own son?”

“Yes... I screamed, I begged, no matter,” Roger seemed amused by the reaction. Any tears he could have were shed a long time ago. He spoke calmly. “That’s the thing, Brian... I did not die. I could not. My father couldn’t understand, so he just decided he could as well keep me locked up forever. He announced my death and held a funeral. I watched through the attic window. The coffin in my grave is empty, it had always been. So, you see – I’ve never been dead, Brian, please-”

“Do you really think that’s the main issue?” Brian hissed. “God, Roger!” 

“What do you want me to say!” Roger exclaimed in frustration at that harsh refusal. “It’s not my fault, I didn’t do anything, I just... I just want to live, Brian, I just... please, understand...”

“You didn’t do anything?” Brian chuckled. He didn’t want to laugh, it just... happened. “Not a simple thing on your mind? Is that why the love of your life, the man bound to you through life and death as you said, died, and you look, forgive me to say, suspiciously well for an old corpse.” 

Roger winced at those words and his eyes narrowed. “I’m not a corpse. Not. I’m not!”

“Then what are you? What did you do?”

“I would just tell you if you let me bloody speak!” Roger yelled.

Brian waved his hands in a gesture of resignation and sat down on the bed. Roger remained by the window and a morning light created a soft halo around him. With his reddened cheeks and eyes wide with emotions... he looked beautiful, so, so much... 

“Alright,” Brian frowned. “Tell me everything, I won’t interrupt. Your father let you starve in the attic and had your coffin buried. What then?” He was getting nauseous at his own harsh tone, and wanted nothing more than just leave all this aside, to forget and to kiss Roger once again, to whisper everything would be fine, to say sorry... But he couldn’t... Was Roger thinking the same? The angelic face remained impossible to read, and when he spoke again, even the tone gave away very little. They might just as well discuss the weather.

“Then my father died,” Roger said softly. “He was a drunk all his life, and during this... incident, he drank all day, every day. One morning, two weeks after my funeral, Freddie found him dead in a chair in the library. His heart failed.”

“Very convenient,” said Brian caustically, but got silent after Roger gave him a stare.

“Do you really think I would kill my own father, Brian? I’m many things, but not that.”

“And Freddie?”

Roger opened his mouth to answer, only to close it again in deeper thought. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “I never... asked. It doesn’t matter now anyway. The point is... my father died without a will, and Freddie and I... we managed to forge one that left the property to us. Well, I was officially dead, so... to Freddie.”

Brian bit his lip and got up. “I think I heard enough, so if you excuse me-”

“You sit down!” Roger snapped. “Now. You wanted to hear the story so now you bloody listen. I’m not done.”

“Apparently,” Brian retorted, but obeyed anyway. “So, what then?” he asked tiredly. Just... done. That’s what he felt. So done. “You lived here with Freddie?”

“Yes, I did... and it was perfect,” Roger admitted, “... for a while. Even though we could never step over the border of this estate. Neither of us. Once we’d do it, the deal is over... and I die. So, we became hermits, recluses... I told Freddie that if he felt it too much of a burden, he could leave with my blessing. But he... He never regretted a thing, and he kept repeating, over and over, that Heaven answered his prayers. As I see it now... I fear the prayer had been received by a very different kind of institution. You have... no idea what it was like,” Roger shivered. “What I felt... was a work of Hell. I watched Freddie day by day, getting older, wilting under my hands, fading from my kisses. No matter how hard I held him... he kept losing something I couldn’t catch.” Roger closed his eyes and breathed shakily. “In five years, he aged how others do in ten. At his thirtieth birthday party he complained about his hair getting grey, we masked it with a shoe polish, I remember,” Roger chuckled, but with no real joy in it, “ten more years, and he looked sixty. First, we joked about an old man having such a young lover, but then he started to... push me away, saying he feels like a pederast. As if that could be true. I wanted him, I loved him, still... I prayed to God to give us a miracle, or at least to take away the first one. Yes, I wanted to live, but I didn’t want that, Brian, never that...”

Brian’s head hurt as he tried to accept all the facts and sort them out. He wasn’t even freaking out anymore, he just tiredly accepted the land of insanity he stepped into. He just wanted to know the truth. 

“So, you fed on his life?” he asked quietly.

Roger nodded. 

“But that would... make you die with him, wouldn’t it? So why-”

“Because of John,” Roger explained, and another tired shadow ran across his face. “Poor John... stupid little boy...” he leaned his back against a wall and closed his eyes, looking so fragile and weak, ready to collapse. Despite his righteous indignation, Brian poured a cup of tea, added several spoons of sugar, and brought it to Roger. Their hands touched, and Brian’s heart ached at the warm, soft feeling. 

“Drink it,” he whispered and couldn’t stop a hint of tenderness, “all of it. And talk.” 

Roger looked up from the cup, his baby-blue eyes wide and hopeful. “Thank you...”

“Tell me about John,” Brian asked strictly and returned his place, far from the blond. “What happened to him? Who was he?”

“Freddie’s manservant,” Roger explained. The tea seemed to help, and some colour returned to his cheeks. “We hired him in the year sixty-five... or six... Just a boy back then. Little bit shy and aloof, but smart and ready to please. Freddie grew really fond of him and convinced me not to let him go after a year or two like we did all the others. I must admit...,” Roger chuckled, “... I got even a bit jealous, because the more Freddie shied away from me... the more he relied on John. But I liked him anyway, we had some good laughs. And the time, of course... didn’t stop. And no one could prevent John from connecting all the dots. He was just like you,” Roger added, “and in no time... he realized who we are and what we do... what I do. That was 1870 and Freddie... it seemed clear he wouldn’t see another summer. John planned an escape. He wanted to... save him from me. I can only imagine the look on his face when Freddie refused and explained the situation. He made his peace... and so did I, I was...,” Roger swallowed and took a sip of his tea, “I knew I was to die with him, I was ready until John came to Freddie again and asked – Is there anything I can do?”

Brian’s eyes widened. “And this is what Freddie asked of him? This?”

“To share his life with me,” Roger sighed, “to take the deal. And John agreed. They arranged everything, John went to Norwich and stole documents from the archives, so nobody would notice anything strange. And he also found a new lawyer for all the legal aspects of this estate, and gave him Freddie’s will, where he left everything to John.” Roger shook his head. “At first, I was against it. The boy was just nineteen, too young... But Freddie got so excited about the thought I could live even longer, that he could save me for good. And I won’t lie, Brian, I saw the appeal... and I took the bait. Because... if my father was right, he just as well might be... then my soul is damned and after I die... I get to Hell to burn forever.”

“You did this to John,” Brian said slowly, “you did this to an innocent child so you wouldn’t burn in Hell?”

“He was far from a child, Brian. A good companion... handsome, clever,” Roger smiled, “I could easily imagine having him by my side. To choose... death or John Deacon... not really a choice. The temptation was too alluring for me to resist... especially when Freddie insisted. “My death wish” he called it. And John would do anything for Freddie. That’s what this magic needs – a free choice to share a life from love. Except this one wasn’t to me, but that didn’t really matter, apparently.”

“But you did sleep together,” Brian frowned icily, “I saw you.”

“Of course... in time, after Freddie’s passing, we did get together as lovers. We were both young... or at least looked like that... we understood each other, and we were bound together and tied to this land. That’s how we lived... and the time passed quickly, so quickly... and John never forgot Freddie’s wish for me to live forever. So... when he felt himself getting weaker, he urged me to find someone new. I did. And you came.” 

“I came...,” Brian repeated slowly, his mind in a complete haze, “... but... no, I... I never said that... but John’s already dead, then how...”

Roger’s blue eyes pierced right through him. “Are you really asking me that? This isn’t something I’m going to do to you, Brian. I am doing it.”

“But I didn’t say anything!” Brian exclaimed in panic. “You said it needs a free choice, I never agreed to this, I would never choose this!”

“My love...,” Roger whispered, and his gaze slipped to the golden band on Brian’s finger, “... Brian, my sweet love, you already did...”


	14. Phaedo

Brian was staring at Roger, silently, and his face was completely blank. Not that he wouldn’t believe, it all made sense in its own twisted way... but... no, he couldn’t believe it, just no, no, no, no, God, please, no...

Roger made a hesitant step forward, looking worried. “Brian, love,” he whispered, “please... say something. With what I told you... I know I should’ve done this way sooner, but it changes nothing. It doesn’t have to change anything-”

“Doesn’t change anything?” Brian croaked, fighting the tightness in his throat. 

Sunlight was now flooding the room, in an absurd contrast to the cold dread that crept up Brian’s body, paralysing him. He recalled a book he had read recently, Roger’s recommendation, where Plato described the death of his teacher Socrates. The words never felt more alive.

_Socrates walked around until he said that his legs were becoming heavy. This attendant felt him, and then a moment later examined his feet and legs again. Squeezing a foot hard, he asked him if he felt anything. Socrates said that he did not. He did the same to his calves and, going higher, showed us that he was becoming cold and stiff. Then he felt him a last time and said that when the poison reached the heart he would be gone._

That’s how Brian felt, except... his hemlock was standing right here, in front of him. Just like the flower, beautiful, delicate and innocent as ever, and yet... carrying death inside.

“You’re taking life from me,” Brian whispered, his face expressionless.

“No!” Roger gulped, violently shaking his head, “it’s sharing! Sharing, not taking!”

“Yes, Roger, taking!” Brian exclaimed, with shock getting slowly replaced by a desperate fury. “You’re stealing it! Robbing people of their years on Earth, you’re nothing but a leech and a thief!”

“Am I?” Roger snapped and folded his arms on his chest. “And who exactly are you? You’ve been nothing when you came here those months ago! Pitiful little waif, poor, starving, lonely and hopeless. I gave you home, food, clothes... and myself, I gave you everything!”

“While keeping me like a pig for slaughter!”

“Brian, no, I swear, it’s not like-”

“You are freak!” Brian shrieked. “A freak! Perverted, depraved, undead monster! And you... you... you deluded me, you tempted me, seduced me and used me!”

“No!”

“Yes, you did! Or am I missing something?”

Roger’s face twitched, as he tried his hardest to hold back his tears. Brian’s words hurt. Really, truly hurt, even more so because they were true.

“You can hate me, Brian,” he mumbled. “But you can’t hate me more than I already hate myself.”

“And that’s supposed to redeem you?” Brian hissed and his voice cracked. “Just... Roger... why did I have to find out on my own? Why did you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this?”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Roger bit his lip, “and... I understand if you never forgive me or never believe me again, but the truth is... I didn’t tell you because... I was too afraid to lose you. If I had told you, you would’ve left!”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Wherever you got that idea,” he chuckled darkly, sarcasm more than evident. “When were you planning to tell me – in a year? In two? When I’m thirty-five and all grey and wrinkly, wondering how that could’ve happened? What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” Roger admitted. Brian’s anger and bitterness were increasingly harder to face, but he persisted, even though correct words were getting difficult to find. “Because...,” he started quietly, “the day we met, I saw you and... as if I were struck with a lightning, lost and burned from just meeting your eyes. I’ve... never wanted anyone or anything so badly. And every day since, I found myself wanting you just a bit more than the day before. The way you looked at me, the... the light in your eyes... Brian, I thought I was dreaming... You wanted me too and that... made me feel a way no one did ever before. Warm and... safe and... home and I... just couldn’t risk it... losing you... I couldn’t do that...” He looked up and their eyes met. “I mean it, Brian, I swear, I love you... more than anything. And I wish I could be the same as everyone else. Alive. Not cursed. Not a thief, not a... killer. But I can’t change that. If you stay, I’d do anything to make it up to you. Anything you wish, anything I might give you, just ask... just please, don’t leave me...” Roger made a step forward, a pleading look in his eyes. “Every day, I can try to make you the happiest man alive. And the most loved,” he whispered. “Never alone. I can promise that. I swear it.” 

“Stop,” Brian clutched his knife even firmer and made a shaky step back, blinking furiously, “stop it, I beg you, please...” He swallowed several times, trying to get rid of the bitter taste of his mouth, but no prevail. “All these words,” Brian choked on a gasp and his eyes pierced Roger in a desperate accusation, “your face, your voice, everything about you! I want to go away, but everything in me screams and pulls me back... you bewitched me!”

Roger smiled weakly. “I’ve got no such powers, Brian. I’m a survivor, not an enchantress. I offered you my heart, my life and my loyalty and all that I possess. What you do with your own... that’s your own doing. You did this to yourself... you love me by yourself, and that’s a gift, Brian, that’s a-”

“I’m leaving,” Brian interrupted him. “Now.”

The other man was quicker than a lightning. With one leap, Roger was at the door, banging them shut and turning a key which he then yanked out and squeezed in his fist.

Brian froze on the spot. Trapped.

“Roger, give me the key,” he asked quietly.

“No.”

“Roger,” Brian growled, and his eyes narrowed. “Give. Me. The. Key. Or you think you can just lock us in and keep everything the way it was?”

“No,” Roger shook his head, blue eyes teary.

“Then give me the key!”

“No!”

Brian furiously reached for the blond and grasped his wrist, yanking him forward. “Give it!” 

Roger fought back, punching, kicking, and twisting in the grip. They stumbled across the room until someone pushed too hard so they both lost their balance and collapsed on the floor. The furniture rattled.

“Let go!” Roger shrieked and pressed Brian against the carpet when suddenly the blade of the letter knife ran through his upper arm and deep in. Fresh blood sprinkled all over the white nightshirt.

Brian let go and gasped in pain, leaving the knife in the wound, but... clutching his own shoulder.

“Silly,” Roger sighed and retreated out of Brian’s reach. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the injury at all, simply pulled the utensil out, tossed it aside and pressed a handkerchief on the wound. “We share, remember? I hope it doesn’t hurt too badly.”

Brian’s eyes glistened with tears of anger, pain and humiliation. 

“Freak,” he hissed. “Maybe your father was right. You’ll end up burning in Hell. Not for what you are, but for what you’ve done! Because, God help me, this is your doing, clear as day!”

Roger paled and Brian suddenly hesitated. 

Did I... really say that? Did I really mean that? Do I love him? No, I can’t, not like this, it’s impossible! No! Yet... He did love him... despite everything, Brian’s heart ached in despair. What to do? What to do? The pain from his non-existent stab wound was slowly leaving as the two men just stared at each other.

And then... there was a soft metal clung when Roger threw the key to Brian’s feet.

“There is no God here,” he said flatly, looking elsewhere.

Brian quickly dropped to his knees and snatched the thing. He wanted to say something, anything, but now, with the way to freedom open, the slowly building panic exploded. In a blind hurry, Brian ran for the door, unlocked and left, dressed for the bed and barefoot as he was.  
Roger stood motionlessly, slowly bleeding from the stab. His eyes were empty.

Feeling nothing... Brian had never really understood the concept before. There was always something to feel, wasn’t there? You could be happy, sad, maybe indifferent, and so many other options, there is always something. 

Now, walking out of the house and over the cold autumn grass, he understood. Heart isn’t a thing to die quickly, never that. Brian’s was still beating, but painfully and needlessly so, tortured, cramping and sore. And he felt nothing... his head kept trying to pick something out of the storm in his chest, that mess, that hurt, to take and feel it but... it couldn’t. And he stayed stuck on a verge of tears, unable to shed them. Nothing...

He didn’t even feel cold, not even when the sharp wind played with his long nightshirt and the recently frozen grass kept pricking his soles. The gown was flowing around and with his stature and long, determined strides he truly reminded of the white egret Roger once compared him to. A symbol of a long life... nothing but a sick joke, he thought bitterly. Love me? He doesn’t love me, he nothing but used me, he doesn’t... love...

Finally, Brian let out a sob. Everything in his felt heavy and cramped and he just couldn’t... God...

“Why!” he screamed over the marshlands. “Why did this happen! Why? Please... please...”

Almost as if the cold wind mocked him, bringing nothing but a faraway crow’s cries for an answer. 

Brian shivered. His fingers were turning blue and his teeth rattled. Nevertheless, he kept going towards the woods. Everything inside him shrieked and wailed, he wanted nothing more than to return, to fall to Roger’s knees, crawl, beg and cry, he wanted to punish him, hurt him and bruise him for what he’d done, but then touch him, kiss him, cuddle and hear those soft tunes Roger had always hummed in his ear for a good night, full of care and love. Brian knew no better place in the world than Roger’s arms. The only good, safe place he came to find... Too good to be true. It was a lie. All of it. There is no God here... 

The crypt looked somehow even sadder than the last time he’d been there. Brian stood silently in front of its entrance, his eyes fixed the cold, wet stone.

Eram quod es, eris quod sum

"I was what you are, you will be what I am"

What were they like, those before him? Had they stood where he was now standing? What did they feel? Why did they choose this?  
Freddie, young boy with heart full of romantic love, resourceful in his time of need. How great must’ve been his despair for the nature itself to hear him out. Now... nothing but a name and two dates, his body decayed, and likeness forgotten. 

Frederick Mercury  
1825 – 1870  
Lover of Life, Singer of Songs

Did Roger pick that, Brian wondered. He must have. Perhaps together with John, his new... companion. Who was he, the enigmatic John Deacon, in times of his youth? What kind of a man would do what he did?  
Was it for money, a way for a servant boy to live the way he couldn’t even dream of otherwise? Or... did he even have any other place to go? Brian didn’t look at John’s desk after the funeral, but he saw it now...

John Deacon  
1851 – 1900  
Happy at Home

Is that why, John? Loyal to death to the only home he’d ever truly had, and to the people that made it, even if it meant...  
Brian closed his eyes, listening to the drops of water regularly tapping on the cold floor. The gravestones... so close... death all around...  
What would your answer be, Brian May? Look, there are free spaces still...

Brian May  
1875 - ... when? When? How long would he last?  
Naive fool... stupid little boy...

With a sudden twist of his stomach Brian turned on his heel and escaped to the light. No. No, not me. Wherever I’m supposed to die. Not here, according to the plan, an obedient love-sick puppet, he thought. Stupid little boy. Never. 

Brian decided to at least grab some clothes and shoes before leaving. This chapter was done. Finished. And Roger or his ghosts could just try to stop him.  
However, once he reached his bedroom, Brian involuntarily froze in surprise. All his belongings were thrown on the bed, dressers empty, drawers wide open, and amid the chaos, there was Roger, neatly folding the shirts and placing them into a massive leather suitcase one by one.

Brian cleared his throat.

“Oh, you’re here,” the blond boy stated, not even interrupting his work, and gave him a side glance. “You’re not seriously telling me you’ve been out dressed like that.”

“Ehm... I have?” 

Roger sighed and moved onto socks. “Brian... I could tell you how idiotic that was, but... I feel I don’t need to. You ask Mrs. Mack for some tea, at least. I suppose a bath isn’t really an option considering the circumstances.” 

Brian wasn’t sure what to make of this. Roger seemed completely calm, speaking matter-of-factly, as if... nothing happened, and this was just another day. Was this some secret plan?

“I had to take my old suitcase from the attic,” Roger explained and gestured over the mountain of clothes all over the bed. “With all the things I got you, your old bag just wasn’t big enough. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Roger,” Brian finally found his voice, “what are you doing?”

Roger chuckled. “My Great Detective, what the hell does it look like? I’m packing. Hince already went to prepare the carriage, he’ll drop you at the train station in Blakeney. With some luck, you might catch the fast train at half past twelve to Norwich.”

“What?”

“You take your crap, you sit in the carriage, you leave,” Roger spoke slowly as if Brian was five. “Get the hell out of here, I don’t care where exactly, just promise me you go far. To London, Paris, Vienna, Prague, or even to America, New York or Los Angeles.”

Brian opened his mouth, but Roger spoke quickly, seemingly not even breathing between sentences.

“And this,” he tapped on a thick envelope on the nightstand, “very important. I suggest you consult it with Beach once in Norwich. It’s all the documents concerning this estate, this year’s expenses and estimated income, you might also want to talk to the farm manager and millers, but I’m sure Beach could handle just fine if you don’t feel like it. You can decide to sell this, or get yearly interests, it makes around thirty thousand, depending on the beetroot-”

“Roger!” Brian said sharply, finally stopping the avalanche. “What are you talking about?” 

“Well what do you think?” Roger spread his arms in frustration. “I’m trying not to forget anything important, considering I’ve been doing all the accounts so far-”

“But-“

“This place is yours,” Roger said quietly, “you know. You never wondered what were those documents you brought to Beach’s office back then about? John’s last will and testament... in your favour. Once you leave... and I’m gone... you’re a rich man. Take it as a compensation for everything I put you through. Or take it whatever way you want, I don’t really care.”

Brian swallowed. “Roger-”

“No, don’t-”

“I just-”

“Please-“

“I can’t-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Brian!” Roger snapped and turned his face away. “Just once, once in your life, just take what’s given. This is a chance, Brian, for you, to live the way you’ve always wanted to. You could even finish the school now, I mean, once you have money, who cares about some old accusations? Your family might even take you back, if that’s what you want. There’s nothing for you here. Nothing.”

Brian sighed. “Roger...,” he whispered, “why are you doing this?”

Roger just snorted and sat down on the bed. “Do I have a choice?” he chuckled. “And besides... it... it might be high time, don’t you think? I’ve already lived longer than I was supposed to. Or this was also meant to happen, I don’t know, and I can’t say. I would never force you, Brian, you know that. I would never keep you against your will. And there’s just... something in you, that makes me want to do the right thing.” He smiled softly. “They say love brings up either the best or the worst of us. And I... for you... I want to do this right. And to take care of you, at least this way, the only way I can. You deserve the world, Brian, so go and take it with my blessing.”

“I wish...,” Brian lowered his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at the man he so desperately wanted to kiss and comfort. He felt empty and useless. “I wish this would all be different.”

Roger nodded. “I wish that too.”

In a long moment of silence, Brian’s determination faltered. He tried to find the anger, the rage, but there wasn’t any. 

“When I leave-“

“I die.”

Brian frowned. “You speak so bluntly about it.” 

“Well, sue me. I’ve seen many of my loved ones die, Brian, and to be honest, knowing you’re going to live isn’t an unpleasant change.”

Something inside Brian broke when he suddenly sobbed again, and a new string of tears ran from his eyes. In a second, Roger stood beside him with a handkerchief.

“Here,” he whispered. “Take this, dry your face. If you cry later, I won’t be there to stop you, but... please, now smile for me, my love. I want you to be happy.”

Brian shook his head and held onto the soft square of fabric for dear life. “I can’t do this,” he whimpered. “Roger, I can’t do this to you, I can’t.”

“Brian, you have to.”

“I can’t just leave and let you die!”

“You’d be surprised how easily you’d forget,” Roger sighed and walked over to the window. “There will be others. You’ll have a lover who can live and age by your side, who can make you happy. Or you find a good girl, a respectable Mrs. May to give you children to make you proud. You’d be a great father. Look into the future, Brian. Never back. Now get dressed, you can’t really go anywhere in the nightshirt.”

Brian stood silently, not knowing what to say, but he realized... Roger didn’t expect to hear anything, neither he wanted to. Quickly, Brian grasped a pair of trousers, socks, shirt and a morning coat to do as he had been told.

“Hince is here with the carriage,” Roger suddenly announced, walked over to the bed, grabbed the last stash of clothes, shoved it into the suitcase and closed it with a click. “It’s time. Do you want me to help you or you can manage on your own?”

It took several seconds before Brian understood Roger had meant the luggage. “I... I can manage, thank you...”

Somehow, they made it downstairs.

“This is where I leave you,” Roger said quietly. “No one will stand in your way this time, I promise.” 

Brian nodded. A large lump in his throat prevented him from saying a single word, but... Roger understood.

He smiled. “Good bye, Brian May.”

Something cracked inside his chest, it was as simple as that. Roger would swear he could hear it, the silent “pop” of a broken heart. He watched Brian’s carriage leave the courtyard, and he still held it together, but once it disappeared behind the first trees... a shiver ran through him, so powerful Roger dropped to his knees, clutching the edges of a rug, his body slowly flooded by a cold dread.

“No...,” he whimpered and treacherous tears filled his eyes, “Brian...”

In the very moment, he hated himself. At least Brian haven’t seen this, he managed to say his goodbyes with dignity, hiding the turmoil, fear and horror filling his chest. Roger’s heart beat faster and faster, as if it wanted to manage as much as possible before the carriage gets over the borderline... and then... nothing...  
Roger let out a sob... he didn’t want to die, but... he knew he couldn’t live either. There was this strange, detached feeling, as if he were already a ghost possessing his own body.

I might just have a drink, he thought gloomily, got up with the greatest effort only to crawl into the library where he kept the secret stash of whiskey. He plopped down into the chair and took a swig, not even bothering with a glass. 

Now? No, not yet? Roger sobbed again while the drink burned in his throat. The taste wasn’t anything special, mixing with tears didn’t help... but hell, no lonely drunk ever drank for the taste of it.

He was afraid, he admitted it. Terrified. Scared to death, Roger snickered at the metaphor, and the bottle met his lips again. Because, who cares. He’s dying. He’s alone. He’s going to Hell, so at least he might get properly drunk before the experience. It might help, actually. 

It would be so nice... so nice to have Brian here, holding his hand. Those incredible eyes, the velvety voice, all intelligent, refined and cultivated, even with those crazy curls. Just this morning, they were happy, just this morning... they snuggled together, whispering sweet nothings... 

No matter. Am I dead yet?

Roger closed his eyes and settled in the chair more comfortably. Here. He tried to calm down, but his heart kept rummaging in his chest, urging his breath to speed up. No, no, no, no! He didn’t even realize he was letting out the quiet whimpers. His nails were digging into the soft armrests, whole body tense and eyes firmly shut.

Any moment now... now... now... alive... alive...

“Roger?”

The quiet voice from the door startled him, and the bottle fell from his lap with a loud crash, spilling the rest of the alcohol on the floor. He... he felt a bit light-headed, but still not drunk enough to see things, right? Right?

“You...,” Roger exhaled. “You...”

Brian only nodded, and it seemed the picture of Roger drinking alone made him a bit uneasy. He was pale, and there were fresh traces of tears on his cheeks. The suit didn’t seem so great either – almost as if... scratched, covered in stains of road dust, mud and grass.

“I... fell down,” Brian explained quietly with a blush when he noticed Roger’s stare. “On the ground. From the carriage.”

“You jumped out, didn’t you,” Roger mumbled.

“Well, you ordered him not to stop no matter what I say!” Brian retorted. “What else could I do?”

“Get out of here!” It took several tries, but Roger got up from his chair. “That’s what you should’ve done, you idiot, get the hell out of here! Because forgive me to say, but for me this is quite a nerve-wracking situation and this constant walking around and-”

“I’ll stay.”

Roger’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

“I’ll stay,” Brian repeated, “if... you still have me.”

“Still have you?” Roger cried out and covered his face. “You stupid, stupid boy...”

Brian quickly walked over the room, to the fireplace, and softly dragged Roger’s hands away so he was forced to look up at him.  
Roger bit his lip. Never in his life had he been happier and more terrified at the same time. And not even the strongest punches had ever more control over him than that feather-like touch of Brian’s long fingers on his. Did he dare to hope...

“Do you understand what’s going to happen if you stay,” he whispered. “Please, Brian, think it through. I’d rather die now than watch you slowly turn to hate me... or stay out of pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Brian’s voice was also quiet, but firm. There was nothing in the world now, nothing but them. “And yes, I get the idea and make no mistake, I... I’m still not exactly thrilled, but... I know that if I left now, I would regret it for the rest of my life. You told me there would be others and perhaps you’re right, but they wouldn’t be you. I’d rather spend several happy years here than ages in the world that wasn’t meant for me. And should this really be such a sin, I promise, I’ll sing with joy the day we walk to Hell hand in hand. But first, we’ll live, you and I, so... that’s the offer.”

Roger reached out and his fingertips softly touched Brian’s face, as if he couldn’t believe it was real, but Brian had none of it and quickly kissed him, deeply and ardently.

And when Roger’s arms finally awakened and embraced him tightly, pulling for another kiss, Brian knew. He was never one to have faith in fate or destinies, but were he such person, perhaps he’d believe this had some greater purpose. Maybe he was even born for Roger, and always meant to end up here. 

He knew enough of mathematics to tell that every problem had a solution, even if it wasn’t apparent straight away. This curse surely was no exception. There must be a way to break it. You ask and it shall be given.  
He would find a way. 

They would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phaedo, also known as "On The Soul" is Plato's famous dialogue discussing the death of his teacher Socrates, immortality of a soul and afterlife.


	15. Who dares to love forever

July of that year had been exceedingly hot, so even as the midnight approached and the sky outside seemed velvety dark, no one even thought about closing the windows. Soft summer breeze was ruffling the draperies, gently stirring the stale air inside.

Fire wasn’t lit for days, and the majestic fireplace in the library started to serve merely a decorative purpose. After all, more than enough intimate light could be provided by the new tall Art Deco lamp standing nearby. 

Large leather armchairs stayed, but the heavy oak writing desk had been tossed out in favour of an elegant piece of bent beechen wood. Carpet covering the floor now shined bright red with black geometrical patterns. 

Luxurious gramophone decorated by mother of pearls filled the air with soft tones of Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. It was the year 1926, roaring twenties, and the young man sitting in one of the armchairs seemed almost like their embodiment.

"Coming right up," Roger smiled and returned from the antique decanter with two sniff glasses and a bottle. "We'll see if I make you change your mind about British lack of taste in alcohol." Black tuxedo with double-breasted vest and narrow trousers contrasted with the light hair and porcelain skin. In the electric light, he looked even paler than usual, but young, vivacious, and handsome. 

So handsome... his guest thought, giving Roger a pensive glance over his glass. 

Upon catching the stare, Roger smirked. "Penny for your thoughts, Adam," he teased. "Or should I pretend you admire my tie?"

"I was just thinking...," Adam Lambert involuntarily averted his gaze, "that you look exactly the same as the last time I saw you." He chuckled. "It's almost scary, but... who says life is fair."

"It isn't," Roger agreed and sipped on his brandy, "to anyone. But look at you,” suddenly, he smiled, “I must say, when you arrived, Brian and I couldn't believe how much you've grown."

Adam grinned. "Now you speak like my grandmother."

"No, I do not!"

"Yes, you do! And I was eighteen when the war ended. It makes sense for people to change in... I can't believe it'll be eight years already!"

Roger nodded. "Sometimes I can't believe that either."

"I'm just...," Adam lowered his voice and his tone lost its teasing edge, "... I'm really sorry about Brian. Back then... we all loved him. Like he was our father as well, not just yours.  
To see him... so..."

"Old?" Roger raised an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah."

"That's what illness does to you," he shrugged, looking down, "illness and a life with me."

"Maybe you could take hum somewhere south,” Adam suggested. “Air and sun in Brighton could give him back some colour."

"What a thought," Roger mumbled, and upon emptying his glass he reached for the bottle again immediately. "You know he can't move. Besides, we're not really ones to travel, even if he could. And... eh... well, why have you decided to stay in England anyway?" From all the topics they could touch tonight, Brian was one Roger hoped to avoid the most, so he turned the conversation elsewhere and tried to conjure up a charming smile.

Adam shrugged. "As good place as any, I guess... I've been in the States for two years after the war but...," he sighed, "it got complicated. There were certain things people started to... notice about me, I lost my friends, I couldn't find a job, so I moved from town to town, but the whispers always-" Suddenly, he stopped and gave Roger an anxious glance.

The blond smiled and shook his head. "Please, don't worry. I'm the last one to judge. In fact... I very much prefer getting it in the arse myself."

Adam nearly choked on his drink before he burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. "You-you're not really beating around the bush, are you?" he wheezed and looked at his companion with a new interest in his electric blue eyes.

Roger winked. "Why should I?" Softly, he reached for Adam's hand and interlocked their fingers before letting go again. "You must know," he explained, "this... revelation or whatever... doesn't mean I expect anything, anything at all, from you. But when I found out you were in London, alone, I thought, perhaps... you might need a friend."

Adam bit his lip, smiling. "Do you usually buy new clothes for your friends?" he asked softly and glanced over his brand new, shiny attire. Midnight-blue evening coat was trimmed with satin and adorned by a white silk handkerchief as well as boutonniere. Exactly the kind of perfectly fitting, fashionable outfit he had always desperately wished to have. And now... he couldn't believe his luck.

"I like being generous," Roger whispered, "so... if there's anything else I can give you..."

The ending chords of Rhapsody in Blue in the background just finished and the record went silent. 

Adam smiled, bit nervously. There was just something in Roger that made his hands clammy and heart pounding. "Can I have a wish?"

Roger leaned in, closer, his cheeks flushed with alcohol. Was this his second glass? Or third, not including all the wine during dinner? "Name it."

"What about... this dance?" And before Roger could even blink, Adam grinned and pulled him onto his feet. "I'm pretty sure I brought some Charleston records, wait a second..."

Roger looked a bit unsure. "Charleston? I mean, I read it exists-"

"Doesn't matter, I'll show you," Adam waved his hand cheerily and hurried to put another record on the gramophone. "Everybody dances Charleston these days, but this place is the end of the world, marshlands and seals, so I forgive you your ignorance," he winked. "Come, come, come, we'll make you second Josephine Baker in no time."

Roger giggled. 

"Well," he jerked his head with a grin, challenged, "just no skirt out of bananas, please."

The new record filled the air with a soft melody of energetic jazz. Adam took Roger’s hand and gently embraced his waist.  
Just this pose made Roger remember, how many perfect evenings he spent just like this, dancing... with Brian. Softly, gently, lovingly, moving together in a perfect harmony with a sweet promise hanging in the air. Oh, my love...

“Are you alright?” Adam worried a bit, which snapped Roger back to reality.

“Of course,” he smiled, “so - how do we dance this?” He caught Adam a little tighter.

“It’s fairly simple, really,” Adam explained, “it’s the style that counts. So... I start my right foot forward so... yeah, just like that, your left goes back. And then your right forward... no, don’t do the waltz bounce, try... bend the knees, just a bit.”

Roger raised an eyebrow but kept his opinions to himself. He liked the music though, and surely Brian would love it-

“And now it gets tricky – you must try and turn your feet in and out, just look at me for now,” Adam offered, and Roger just stared at the seemingly ridiculous twists of his legs, “... and the same sideways...” oh, dear God, “come, try it with me.”

Roger closed his eyes and tried to listen to the soft jazz and that friendly American voice. To feel the strong arms holding him. After several tries and lots of nervous chuckle, he and Adam managed to move in synchrony, more or less.

“You’re really good,” Adam’s eyes slid over Roger with a sparkly appreciation, “now... what about we jazz it up?”

Roger smiled and leaned against him instead, so they were purely swinging in the melody. “It’s really... different,” he admitted, “nice though.”

Adam couldn’t but agree. Really nice... he pressed Roger a little bit closer and caressed the small of his back. The blond didn’t seem to mind, only snuggled deeper against his shoulder.

“Tomorrow I can take you to the beach,” Roger mumbled quietly, “we’ll take some food with us, some drinks and a blanket... that’ll be nice.”

“You shouldn’t spoil me like this,” Adam teased and ran his hand over his dance partner’s spine, “or one day I just refuse to leave.”

Roger shrugged. “Stay. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah, right. You know what they say - guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” 

The Charleston ended and Roger let go of Adam, looking at him intently. “Don’t be a guest then. Stay, as long as you like. I mean it. If I can speak honestly... I don’t think you have much going on in London, and here... I mean...,” his eyes were wide and mesmerising, when he reached up to touch Adam’s cheek, “... it could be really... nice. You and I.”

Adam swallowed and touched Roger’s hand. The air thickened.

“And... your father wouldn’t mind?”

Roger did his best to keep the eye contact. “Brian knows,” he admitted, “and... he likes you too. So, what do you say? Stay welcome, keep us some company... share your life with us.”

Adam chuckled. “That’s a strange way how to put it.”

“It’s my way how to put it,” Roger tilted his head. “So?”

There was a moment of silence interrupted only by the ticking of the antique clock from the hallway, and quiet tinkle of carillon by the window. From his position, Roger could see the night outside. Faint glow of the moon spread all over the marshlands he grew up loving... and grew to hate. With all his guts.  
Was it just his imagination, or did he really see those eerie figures, out there? A trick of light? Or perhaps... they knew. They had to know why they came... to welcome one of their own?

“... so, yes, I can stay.”

Roger blinked. “What?”

“I said,” Adam repeated, “that I’d stay. Keep you company... share my life,” he chuckled, but immediately, his brows squinted in worry. “Are you alright? You just... spaced out. Maybe we should call it a day. I mean...,” his eyes twinkled, “we’ve got time for everything, haven’t we?” 

“I suppose...,” Roger exhaled, “... we’ve got time... Adam, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.”

“For what? Look, it’s fine if you’re tired-”

“Yes, tired, so...,” Roger hastily fixed his tux and stepped back a bit, ready to leave, “... so if you want to stay longer, listen to some more records, or have a drink or whatever, please, do, I need to-”

“-check on Brian?” Adam raised his eyebrow. “Of course. I wondered the whole evening, every time you hypnotised the ceiling, when you get up and go there. I know you’re worried.”

Roger shuffled his feet, and his shoulders sagged. “Worried, yes...”

Adam hesitated for a second, but then he stepped forward and pressed a chaste kiss on Roger’s forehead. “You better go. And if he’s awake, tell him I say good night.”

Roger quickly nodded and readied himself to leave. “I will. And... thank you, Adam.”

“No problem,” the young American waved his hand, “I wish I had the same relationship with my own father.”

Roger froze at the door. “Eh.... sure. Good night.”

Even though the interior of the lower floor mirrored the new age, upper corridors and bedrooms remained strictly Edwardian. Roger always found a certain comfort in that, walking around, hoping the time have stopped after all. Sociable smile disappeared from his face, as if washed by a cold rain, exchanged for a tense, weary expression, when he hurried to the bedroom.

Quietly, he stepped in. Brian seemed to be deep asleep, but a small lamp on the bedside table was switched on. Roger gladly got rid of his tuxedo, untied the bowtie and undid the first two buttons of his shirt before approaching the bed. And as always, even after all these years, he sighed at the deep wave of love, desire and longing, coming from the very roots of his soul, painfully filling. Isn’t it ridiculous, that a single person can make you feel so goddamn much? Too much, always and every single time...  
Brian needed his rest, that’s why Roger didn’t dare to disturb him, yet he couldn’t but come closer and sit at the edge of the bed. Quietly, he took the stiff, wrinkled hand in his. Nothing had changed, he thought, or wished to think, and glanced around the bedroom for affirmation. The velvet curtains, canopy, rugs, armchair and fireplace..., even some paintings on the walls remained from the old days. Dark red roses on the mantelpiece, grown for Brian specially, were supposed to freshen the place up, but still, they couldn’t battle the sight of various pills, bedsore powders, ampules of morphine, and the smell... the unmistakable smell of a Reaper. Roger’s throat tightened, and quickly, he glanced at the photographs hanged all over the walls. 

Taking these pictures became Brian’s passion ever since he got his first Kodak Box camera from Roger for the Christmas of 1902. His old room in the attic had been turned into the darkroom. 

Roger smiled. On the mantelpiece, proudly framed, there was one of the first ones Brian took. In the picture there were both of them, in their youthful happiness and calm intimacy, standing side-by-side in front of a Christmas tree, dressed in those ridiculous jumpers from Mrs. Mack. 

And so, so many moments followed... framed or hidden in albums... spring 1903, Roger posed for his lover in the library (I just need to use the light correctly, do you see how utterly fascinating are all the shadows). Another one pictured Brian, caught in the bed after having just woken up, then Roger outside with a new-born foal. Each of their dogs, naturally. June 1906, when Brian got himself a bike. July 1906, when Brian got himself a cast. 

And of course, the memorable winter of 1908, a shameless series of Roger spread over the sheets, dressed up in corset, laces, ribbons and stockings, hair curled in lady-like locks and face tinted with make-up. Roger still couldn’t believe he’d let Brian talk him into that. But then, he chuckled, of course he did. He took some revenge nudes of Brian as well, though it cost a great effort from his side to convince his lover to step in front of the camera. Brian had just turned thirty that year and started to worry. Looking in the mirror every morning, he could find his first wrinkles cutting deeper, and face becoming sharper.  
He knew. Oh, yes, he knew... 

They both spent longs hours in the library, reading every single book about marshlands, pagans, magic and mysticism, having them sent from all over the world. But... nothing useful. And the years went by. 

The Great War from 1914 to 1918 threw Europe in chaos, raw and harsh reality hitting all the families whose sons, fathers, brothers and lovers were taken. Gone, to fight in mud, blood, horror and dirt against all the reason, in the name of hatred and politic schemes. Not even the secluded Rhye Hall was spared. Roger had to give up many farmworkers and all the horses for military purposes, and it took countless days for Brian to comfort him. Both eagerly followed the development on the front, listening to the radio every day for the freshest news. 

In the autumn of 1915 Roger insisted they had to do more for their country, and Brian wholeheartedly agreed, as he’d take any opportunity not to think about his joints, aching with first hints of arthritis. It took a lot of work but finally, in the spring of 1916, Rhye Hall had officially become a convalescent home for the British and American troops. 

Young soldiers, nurses and other staff filled the house to the brim, and brought a breath of fresh air, noise, laughter and endless chatter. Roger fit in immediately. He could spend hours with the boys, chatting, drinking, talking about news in culture and politics, playing music and outdoor games, even swimming in the sea during summer. Soldiers took him as one of their own, their little brother. And as for Brian, the dignified elderly gentleman took them under his wing like a flock of ducklings. Always understanding, energetic and intelligent, willing to sit by somebody’s bed and comfort after nightmares, or to take a slow walk with those too weak or invalid to join the others. One of the soldiers brought a guitar and offered to teach Brian how to play it. Brian being Brian, he was always up to learn something new. A rumour had it, that his late wife surely cheated on him, because the blond, blue-eyed son looked nothing like his once dark, curly-haired father. Nobody dared to bring it up though. 

Recovered men left and new, wounded ones, arrived, but many stayed in contact even after the end of war. It took Roger and Brian at least two hours every day to read and respond to all the letters they’d gotten. Adam Lambert, young American private, became one of the frequent correspondents, sending little presents and treats from the States, at times he could afford it. Roger often mailed him something in return, urging Adam to turn to them should he ever need anything.

The year of 1918, the year of victory, inevitably meant the end of their little sanctuary as well. There was a photograph Roger felt especially fond of. Everybody stood gathered on the courtyard, all thirty remaining soldiers, five nurses, a doctor, the kitchen staff, and in the middle, Brian and Roger, not looking into the camera, but at each other. Their eyes were filled with light and adoration, maybe infected by the omnipresent hope for the future.  
Brian started to realize he needed a cane.

The years after war meant a slow and calm period of their lives, which, at least from the beginning, both Brian and Roger fully enjoyed. None of Roger’s horses returned, but his grief was soothed more than enough by the new baby Brian bought – Alfa Romeo G1. Roger fell in love with his car and had all the roads on the estate covered with asphalt so he could drive his treasure around freely.

Brian felt comfortable just to sit back and watch, as moving around got increasingly difficult. Even with his cane he could only shuffle, bound by arthritis and all the little pains and aches coming with age. One by one, sneakily, grey hair turned white, and his once smooth face had been transformed by wrinkles, marking the time he did not live through.  
To watch all this in the mirror... no, it wasn’t easy, but Roger made everything better. Always there, always by his side, with his love urgent, firm and relentless. In bed, they were forced to abandon most positions, keeping just two or three, but it was enough. Nothing mattered under the covers, no age, no time, no curse, they traced each other’s bodies with certainty gained by sheer practice and pure deep bond they created, built and cherished through the years, eager and shameless as ever.

It was about then when Brian’s own thinning bones betrayed him, and his spine began to crumble. In not even a year he shrunk to be smaller than Roger, crooked, distorted, and helpless in cruel, crippling pain without mercy. Morphine injections, which he got quickly used to, turned out to be his only salvation. Shakily, he kept begging Roger for larger and larger doses. It was never enough though. It never could. And once he, weak and dizzy, fainted on the stairs and ended up bedridden for months, he knew, all too well, he would never get up again. 

This was the end. 

Roger shifted a little and the old mattress crooked under him. He didn’t like the electric light. Were it up to him, they’d still have candles and oil lamps which did the job just nicely, thank you very much. Granted, it was more comfortable just to switch it on and off, not to mention safer, which became Brian’s main argument since he came with this electrification idea. And now... Roger got honestly nauseous every time he spotted a lightbulb. Too... he couldn’t explain it... too strange. Too foreign, too... much. He couldn’t get used to it. 

Tired... just so, so tired... 

With a small sigh, he gave up to his urges, opened a drawer, fished out few candles, lit them up and switched the stupid lamp off. Here. Much better. In the candlelight Brian’s face didn’t look that bad... Old, for sure, but not... not... Not yet, Roger thought desperately, not yet. 

Not. Yet.


	16. Good night, sweet prince...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Roger didn’t even know much time he spent just sitting on the bed and caressing the palm of his lover, before he realized the touch was being returned. 

“I’m not sleeping, you know,” Brian mumbled and squeezed his hand little firmer.

“Then you probably should,” Roger leaned over him and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead. “I’ll just wash and join you.”

Brian’s expression was unreadable when he sighed. His hazel eyes, once so clear, were dulled by age, suffering and painkillers. Candlelight flickered.

“Roger...,” he whispered urgently, his face tense.

“Yes, my love?”

“How did it go? With your guest... downstairs?” Brian forced a smile, though his face twitched in a spasm. “I... I was listening.”

Roger shrugged. “I think I like that jazz thing. It’s really... American. New age, I suppose.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s done,” Roger retorted, anger underlining his words, “happy? I did it.”

Brian swallowed and his gaze flicked away. “Good.”

“Good?” The mattress creaked again as Roger got up and turned to Brian, his eyes wide. “You say it’s good? You, out of all people!”

“You know it has to be, love,” Brian looked like he was trying, desperately trying, to believe in his own words. “You know there is no other way and I can’t-“

“He’s a child,” Roger snapped. “Do you really want me to live with a child? Brian...,” tears glistened in his eyes, “... I beg you, please... can’t you just... be angry with me? Just for once?”

“Angry? Why would I?”

“Why would you?” Roger screamed and threw one of the glass doses against the wall. At least half a kilo of bedsore powder snowed all over Brian’s journal collection. The old man either didn’t see it, or didn’t care, already more than used to these outbursts. “Why would you?” Roger repeated furiously. “I don’t even know where to start! Everything we’ve been through, all these years, together, and now you’re just here, listening to me dancing downstairs with that American baby boy! You must mind this, you must care, you... Brian, my sweet... please, tell me you want me for yourself. That I’m yours... just yours... nobody else’s... forever... Like you used to...” 

After a long silence, Brian whispered: “I can’t have you forever, we both know that... At least I had you for a while. To be honest... I do wish we had more, so much more. It wasn’t enough, but it’s as good as it gets. I want you to be happy, my love, only that.”

Roger sat down again, quietly, and caressed Brian’s face. “Were you anybody else,” he mumbled, “it could’ve taken just another pretty face for me to be happy. But... there is nothing, nothing and no one for me but you. I asked Adam to be with us, us, because you’re not going to leave me. Never.” He tried to swallow the lump forming in his throat. “I don’t... I can’t be without you, it’s that simple. You’re my star, my life, my everything... You lit me on fire the day you came and since then I know... yours is the only touch that can cool me... and without it... without it...”

Roger’s voice broke, so he leaned in and kissed those dry, bloodless lips, just the way he knew Brian liked. Slow first and then faster and deeper, sucking and devouring. He made a work of art of that kiss. Brian lay weak, frail and fragile under his hands, but Roger didn’t care. 

He pulled away quickly, however, right after hearing those familiar quick, shallow breaths. 

“Did I hurt you?” he whispered. He must’ve jostled him or move with him in some way. Brian was more fragile than a glass. Not so long ago, he had complained about his pains, then he cried, but now... Brian never wanted to distress his lover and decided to hide them, letting soundless misery draw lines of bitterness all over his face. The breaths always gave him away though, and Roger took great care to notice. “I’m so sorry-”

Brian’s soft touch on Roger’s hand didn’t cease. “Never...,” he said quietly, “never apologise for kissing me.”

Roger chuckled among the tears. “Well, then, my love.”

They both got silent, watching a full moon shine on the night sky. Stars created a spectacle of wonders. Oh, the sleepless nights they had spent on a blanket outside, starry summer nights such as this... They talked about the world, universe, creation, God and the Devil, until their touches became just too hard to ignore, and both men ended in a ball of passion and eagerness, coming with a cry that echoed all over the marshlands. There was always something strangely intimate... being all alone, out, in the dark... and yet Roger always felt something... something in the dark. 

Silent sniffle interrupted his thoughts. Brian was crying. Maybe he had been thinking about the same.

“I love you...,” Roger whispered, not knowing what to say, and leaned over Brian to kiss the tears away. “Please, tell me what you need. Does it hurt? What hurts?”

“Everything...,” Brian sobbed, too weak to keep any pretences. “Everything... I can’t... I can’t do anything, I can’t move, I can’t... I can’t take this anymore, Roger, love, I can’t... please...”

Roger just wanted to scream. “Do you want another morphine?” he asked quickly. “I promise, one shot and you’re as good as new.”

“Doesn’t work anymore, nothing works...”

“We’ll give it a try,” Roger decided, heart thumping all up in his throat. Moments like this for more and more frequent, and he felt just so helpless... useless, stupid and guilty as hell. Sitting here, all young, handsome and healthy, young lover ready in a room next door, while Brian suffered. Fate had a dark sense of humour. “And what about we try to move you a bit?” he continued, making an effort to sound practical. “You almost slid down from the pillow already.”

Brian’s eyes widened in a flash of fear. “No!” he gasped. “No, please, don’t.”

“My love-”

“Don’t touch me,” he begged quietly. “Please... don’t move me, don’t touch me, just leave it...”

Roger frowned. “I know, my love, I know it hurts... but we need to move you, you know that. If we don’t do that, the bedsores get even worse – and the worse they get, the longer I’ll need to tend to them every morning. I’ll be quick, I promise, just turn you to the side.”

“Don’t! No, no, no, no! Leave me be!”

“Brian...,” Roger exhaled in exasperation and his voice cracked, “please... don’t do this to me...”

“Don’t hurt me,” Brian looked at him with a desperate plea, “it’s just so... I can’t, can’t do this anymore. It’s like... it doesn’t even belong to me, it aches, and decays and I can only watch.” New tears appeared in his eyes and his face twisted with another spasm. “Hurts...”

“I’m so sorry, my love,” Roger swallowed, “it’s my fault, I’m so sorry...”

Brian sighed. “It’s not...”

“Yes, it is!” Roger cried out. “It is!” In that moment, he hated himself. His own mouth tasted bitter. 

“There was a price to pay for what we had,” Brian mumbled, closing his eyes, “and I chose to pay it. But... I never imagined it so... so... I don’t regret it. I can’t regret it, not now... “

“It’s not over,” Roger pressed his hand more urgently, “not over, do you hear me? We will have longer, we can have years in front of us, still.”

“Like... this?”

Roger shook his head frantically. “No. No, no, you’ll get better. I’ll make you better, I promise...”

“Roger, stop.”

“... anything, whatever price there may be, I’d give my life for-”

“You don’t have a life to give,” Brian interrupted him tiredly, words getting out perhaps harsher than he intended. “That ended... a hundred years ago.”

Roger’s eyes widened. “An undead monster,” he whispered, and his lower lip quivered, “that’s how you called me, remember? Perverted. Depraved. Freak. You know, back then...,” his voice got even higher and quieter, “you were right. I wished I chained you to that carriage back then, I wish I could take it all back...”

“I wouldn’t have it other way,” Brian shook his head and winced as another wave of pain flared through him, “ah, god... you could go back... and tell me of the life we’ve had, and I would’ve made the same choice, thousands of times again. What I said, about you, not having anything to give... I didn’t mean it as an insult, my love, just... we need to see things realistically... for once, finally. There are things in life... that have no solutions. Problems in this world for which nothing can be done... nothing... ”

“You can’t give up,” Roger blurted out and ran his fingers through Brian’s thinning hair, “I won’t let you. There is always a way, there must always be a way.”

“I don’t see it...” Brian opened his eyes again and looked at his lover. 

Roger’s heart felt full enough to burst, taking in all the pain, sadness and fear... and the love as well. “Please...,” he whispered, not sure what exactly was he begging for, “please... just... you’re the smartest man I’ve ever known, a genius and... everything, please, try, we’ll think, we’ll break this!”

Brian chuckled and even the small shift jostled his crumbled spine. He squeezed Roger’s hand, clutching for dear life.

“What about this, love,” Roger whispered. “I’ll put more pillows on your side and move your legs, at least that.”

“No-”

“And then,” Roger continued firmly, “we try those new sleeping pills doctor sent. He says phenobarbital should work for you better than morphine, you’ll finally get some rest. And then... it won’t be that bad, will it?” He smiled. “I’ll be with you, the whole night.”

“What can I do...,” Brian mumbled and closed his eyes once again. “Just be quick.”

“I’m not letting you just lay here like a piece of meat,” Roger murmured and reached for an already prepared emergency shot of morphine. “My apologies for not having you rot. Which arm, love? I know you say the shots don’t work anymore, but... at least for the moment it can help.”

He had plenty of experience with these shots, after all, he’d been giving them to his lover for the last two years. It was getting rather difficult though to find a vein that hadn’t been already pierced and destroyed. After several tries, Roger managed and quickly, he got up and pulled Brian’s blanket aside.

“See? You’re all awry,” he tried for a cheery tone, “we can’t have that, can we? Let’s fix your legs first and- oh, please, love, I didn’t even touch you!”

Brian already whimpered in the anticipated pain, and when Roger finally went for it and straightened him, he let out a quiet wail. New tears sprung from his eyes.  
“No, Roger, no-”

“My love, I’m so sorry,” Roger wasn’t far from a breakdown. He didn’t have nerves for this, he really did not. “You... we don’t have to do it now. What about... what about you take the sleeping pills first and I’ll try then?” He giggled in a subtle hysteria. “And I should bring you another pair of socks, what do you say? You’ve got two blue ice cubes instead of feet.”

“I don’t feel them,” Brian sobbed, “please, please, do something... hurts...”

“Ah, alright, alright, the pills,” Roger nearly leaped after the medicine bottle, “so... doctor said the absolute maximum is three per day, so let’s start with two...”

“Make it ten,” Brian said and reached for Roger’s hand again. “Or a dozen, just to be sure. Please, love.”

“My sweet, two will be enough, I promise, I swear-”

“They won’t be. Not for... what I want.”

Roger blinked when a suddenly sharp look of the hazel eyes met his. It took him several long seconds of silence to understand. The time stopped.

“No...,” he breathed quietly, eyes wide in terror. “No, please, you can’t want that from me...”

Just for a short moment, Brian looked up in silence. “My love...,” he breathed quietly, “... please... it’s one thing... the last thing I’m asking. Don’t make me... beg for it. If you ever loved me-”

“No!” Roger exclaimed and blue eyes once again flashed with fury. “You will not blackmail me like that! I will not poison you, I can’t kill you, I will not do that... Because you need to live, weeks, months, years... you need to live forever, for me... for me, love. I need you.”

The candle on the nightstand was getting shorter, and the hot wax started dripping on the floor. None of the men noticed. It was like all the air disappeared, breathing got hard.  
Brian tried to turn to Roger a bit more, but gave up with a hiss. 

“What even is this you’d take away, my love,” he mumbled, “I gave you a lot and gave it freely, now just... please, take the rest as well. I can’t... I can’t anymore. I can’t...”

“I’ll find a way for us,” Roger’s eyes filled with tears, as he desperately clutched the bedsheets, “I promise! But you need to fight, Brian, you can’t give up, not yet... We can do this, day by day, we’ll go through this...”

“Through this... to what?” Brian whispered and his thumb caressed Roger’s hand. “There’s only one way for me... all I’m asking... help me... You don’t need me anymore, I beg you, let me go.”

“What are you saying, my love, my sweet Brian, I need you, of course I need you! I’ll never stop needing you, you... I love you,” Roger gasped tearily, “so much... I won’t let you leave me.”

The candle went out and darkness of the midnight spread all around. Roger couldn’t bother himself with lighting another one, so he switched the lamp on again.  
Foreign electric light flooded the room, making Brian’s features seem even bitterer and wearier, resigned and done. 

“I can’t walk,” Brian’s eyes once again met Roger’s, conveying the desperate plea, “I can’t even move, it hurts, hurt so much, but when I don’t, it’s just as bad... I can’t sleep anymore, I can’t eat, can’t... breathe.... like... my own body is a prison, a torture chamber. Please... help... I hate to ask it of you and I’m sorry, but I can’t... do this anymore.”

“You’re sorry?” Roger repeated weakly. “You’re sorry? You? For God’s sake, Brian Harold May, you stupid, stupid boy... It’s me who should be on my knees, begging for your forgiveness! How long have you been thinking about this? It isn’t an idea of the moment, is it, I know you too well. How long?”

“For quite some time,” Brian sighed. “Roger... many years ago you asked something of me...,” he swallowed heavily, “... and I agreed. Now I’m asking for a favour in return.”

Roger was shaken. Shaken, frozen and horrified, but... “Is this what you want?” he asked flatly. “Are you completely sure?”

Brian nodded.

Roger’s lips made a thin line when he took the medicine bottle and let a small pile of pills fall out in his hand.  
“I’ll crush them for you, as usual,” he said quietly, already looking for a spoon. He felt Brian’s eyes on him when he ground pills one by one into a white powder and mixed it with a spoonful of tea. None of them could count how many times they did it exactly like this.

A routine, one would say. 

“All done,” Roger announced, and sat down on the edge of the mattress, “fifteen. Wherever you’re ready.”

Brian looked up fondly, and a small smile crossed his lips. “I knew...,” he whispered, “I knew I could pick one good lover. I’m ready.”

For a short moment it seemed Roger was going to throw the medicine away, far away. A single tear ran down over his cheek, as he held the spoonful of death in an iron grip.  
But then, he breathed in, and offered the drug close enough for his lover to take and swallow. Brian grimaced at the bitterness.

“Here, drink some tea,” Roger offered weakly and held out the cup to his lips. “It’s cold, I’m sorry, I think it had been standing here since afternoon.”

Brian sighed in relief and his eyes seemed tired, but happy. For a long moment, he was looking at Roger. Just looking, calm and peaceful. “So beautiful you are,” he whispered.

“I suppose...,” Roger chuckled shakily, not really knowing what to say, “... in that case we could just call it off... have dinner and you drag me to bed, on my hands and knees.”

“Wouldn’t that be glorious,” Brian agreed, and his eyes sparkled. “We can do that tomorrow.”

Roger caressed his cheek. “Of course. Anything you want.”

“Roger?”

“Hm?”

“Lie with me,” Brian drowsily slurred the words, “come to sleep.”

Quickly and carefully, Roger switched off the lamp, and slipped under the covers. He clung softly to his lover, pressing several gentle kisses on his neck. 

“Brian?”

“Hm?”

“I just want you to know...,” he said quietly, “all those years ago, I thought this life was... not even a real life. Locked in here, watching people around come and go... But with you, the feeling changed. I lived. I really lived with you. You’re my life, my love, my everything. I need you to know that. I love you... my sweet, so goddamn much... love you, I love you, I love you...”

No answer came, and a cold sweat ran down Roger’s back. He could feel Brian breathing, yes, he was asleep, but... but...

“I’m sorry,” Roger whispered and his voice finally broke, “forgive me... ”

He wasn’t sure how long he held Brian in that tight embrace, weeping helplessly. It could be minutes. It could be centuries. Then, Roger got up, already quiet and calm, and took his coat. He knew what needed to be done, and this time... for the first time ever... he felt ready to face it.

Full, bright moon illuminated the room. Roger made sure to neatly tuck Brian in before slipping out. The corridor was dark, and warm, but still... a wailing wind ran through his hair, crying its pensive melody.

“Roger!”

He nearly got a heart attack, right at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Adam!” Roger exclaimed, breathing heavily. “What the hell are you doing, creeping around the house like this!”

The young American blinked in confusion. “Just... going to bed. What are you doing?”

Roger bit his lip. “Eh... going for a walk. Fresh air... and stuff.”

Adam frowned, studying his face. “Are you alright? It’s almost one in the morning. How’s Brian?”

“Never better,” Roger swallowed, “and yes, it’s late, yes, but... it’s a habit, you know. And I... I like night time walks. Would you... would you mind checking on Brian in the morning? Just... in case I oversleep.”

“Of course.” Adam’s frown got even more suspicious. “Are you sure everything’s alright?”

“Soon it will be,” Roger assured him, “so... yes, you better go to bed. It’s late.”

“Good night,” Adam mumbled in confusion when Roger just slipped around him, down the stairs and out of the house. The main entrance closed behind his with a click that echoed throughout the corridors. Suddenly, it occurred to Adam how lonely place this was.

Roger walked quickly through the warm night, and the moon shined on the way. Illuminated by the silver starlight, he looked nothing like a creature from this world. He left everything behind – what he was, everything he had... and from all the emotions and turmoil in his chest, only one crystalized over all the others.

After all these years... he felt peace. Did his heart already die, perhaps that could have been an explanation, but... no, it was beating in his chest steadily, maybe even quicker than usual. 

The estate’s bronze gate was just some thirty, forty steps in front of him, sparkling in the starlight. Roger couldn’t believe he was actually... his stomach tensed with a sudden wave of terror. No coming back. No, no one to come back to, not coming back... Brian, my love, what have I done, how could I leave you...

He closed his eyes and a sudden wave of cold air caressed his cheeks.

Roger... Roger, darling...

His eyes snapped open. Right in front of him, there was a white, pale figure, motionless in the night wind. It’s been years since he saw that face for the last time.

“Freddie...,” Roger whispered, “is that you? Please, I’m sorry, but... I have to. It’s time. This must end, and it ends tonight. But... help,” he sobbed, “please...”

Freddie kept looking at him thoughtfully, and then he smiled. In that very moment, Roger felt a cold touch on his shoulder, and... there was John. Silvery white and eerie, but the same as he once used to be, young, long-haired boy with an adorable gap-toothed smile.

Freddie leaned towards Roger and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. John glanced towards the gate and then back to Roger, a question in his eyes.

“Are you,” Roger whispered shakily, “coming with me?”

John nodded and Freddie flashed one of his bright grins. Roger reached out to touch their hands, but he went through. Suddenly his body felt too heavy, ponderous and clumsy. Too real. Uncomfortably, unbearably so.

The old gate opened with a soft squeak of a rusting metal.

Roger couldn’t wait, and his heart would burst with excitement. This was it. The way of escape. No more pain, no more heartbreak, no more... no more... 

I’m free... he thought shakily. I’m free...

The dead walked with him, side by side, giving smiles and supportive glances whenever he looked for them.

I will fly...

Don’t look back, darling, Freddie whispered, just let go...

It won’t hurt, John assured him softly, and we can’t wait, lover...

Come... 

Come...

Sharp wind howled over the ancient marshlands when Roger stepped through the gate...  
...and then there was nothing, but a small pile of frail bones scattered on the road. Empty sockets of the skull kept staring towards the night sky, until it all just crumbled to dust and flew away, carried by a soft summer breeze.


	17. Just pieces of a man

Brian woke up with a gasp. 

The moonlight spilled into the room through the spread curtains, not enough to quite illuminate it, but sufficiently to give all the contours of furniture somewhat eerie silvery lining. The air felt cold, too cold. Every breath Brian took was freezing his insides, but not in the utterly unpleasant way but... the way water from a mountain spring would. 

Was this... to be honest, Brian had never really thought about how death would look like. After all, he counted with a fact he’d see for himself soon enough. This though... this didn’t feel like death.

Fresh, new, and invigorating sensation. His whole body vibrated with something he hasn’t felt for a long, long time... Nothing hurt anymore. With this realization Brian stretched his limbs and smiled in delight. He laughed, and it felt... amazing.

“Roger?” he called, happy and relieved. “Roger, love?”

The other half of the bed was empty. Strange... A sudden shadow ran over mind when he started to realize...

“Roger?” Brian called again, more anxiously, and looked around, hoping to see his lover somewhere. “Roger!” Even his voice sounded strange, no more old man’s whispery rasp, it had a clear ring to it as if... as if...

“Roger!” Brian screamed when a wave of panic engulfed him. 

Quickly, he jumped out of the bed and hurriedly reached for the light switch. Bright light flooded the room. No Roger anywhere, and Brian froze, helplessly staring into a whole-body mirror on the opposite wall. The reflection accurately showed the pale skin, uncomprehending expression and fear, but the face staring back at him wasn’t a face of an old man. His body became once again strong, lean and lithe, dark brown curls reached just under his shoulders and the face... not a wrinkle anywhere, all smooth and handsome, with youthful, bright eyes and elegant features. Brian touched his cheeks in disbelief, not a day older than when he’d come to Rhye Hall.

Oh, God... Impossible... this... impossible...

“No!” he gasped, when a full realization hit him, and let out a scream. “No! Roger, no!”

Brian stumbled several steps back in panic and wanted to run, but his legs, not used to standing lately, gave out, and he collapsed on the floor, hitting his shoulder against the bedframe.

Everything got blurry, his mind and thoughts rapidly raced from one place to another. Brian ran his hands over the soft Persian carpet dragging his nails over the pattern. He needed to feel this was real. He couldn’t understand, he didn’t want to understand and hated his mind for making conclusions without him ever asking for it. 

“Please, you can’t...,” he whispered, and tears sprung from his eyes, “no, you can’t, tell me you didn’t. You’re not gone, you can’t be gone, impossible... No! No, no, no, can’t be, please, no! No! No!” 

His heart stopped for a second when the bedroom door squeaked open but-

“I’m really sorry to disturb you but is everything-” Adam’s voice faltered and he stood, staring at the broken, teary-eyed man on the floor.

“You...,” Brian whimpered quietly, turning his dead stare back to the ground,“... you...”

Adam blinked in confusion. “What the hell...,” he breathed.

The mutual silence lasted only for a short moment. Adam had fought in war, and if he learned something perfectly, it was to recognize a situation which calls for an action now and questions later. Quickly, he squatted down next to Brian and touched his shoulder. 

“Shhh,” he cooed, “it’s alright, it’s gonna be alright...” 

“Roger...,” Brian peeped, tears falling from his eyes and onto the floor. “Roger...” Blindly, he reached for Adam, who immediately offered his embrace.

“I saw him going out,” he tried to help, “for a walk. I’m sure he’ll be back soon and-”

“He won’t!” Brian shrieked and a new flood of tears soaked into Adam’s shirt. “He’s gone! How! How could he do that, how could he do that to me! And you!” He drew himself back and poked Adam’s chest, his eyes suddenly furious and full of flame. “You! What did you tell him, what did you promise?”

“Eh, I...,” Adam gulped. “What?”

“You said you would share your life with us, didn’t you?” he cried. 

Adam was a picture of utter confusion and managed only to nod.

“With him? Or us? Answer me! Did you offer to share your life with us both?”

“What the hell, man!” Adam tore Brian’s hands from him. “And that’s it,” he said firmly, “come. With me, now.”

He got up and dragged Brian on his feet. 

“Oh, what-“

“Now, we go to the library,” Adam threw Brian’s arm over his own shoulders and Brian was too stunned to resist. He had no idea what to do or what should he do, he felt just so completely and utterly empty... He couldn’t but weep quietly and let Adam do whatever he chose.

In the library the former soldier sat Brian into one of the large chairs, poured a generous dose of brandy and pressed it into his hand.

“Here, drink it,” he ordered.

Even despite the warm night, Brian shivered with uncontrollable chills. The aromatic smell of alcohol only brought back the thought of Roger and his insides clenched so hard he felt he would vomit. Adam had to take the glass and lead it to Brian’s lips himself.

“Here... that’s right... good. Drink it all.”

Some colour returned to Brian’s cheeks but a sour bitterness refused to leave his mouth. He knew what happened. He refused to admit it, not to mention accept it but... he knew.

“He’s gone...,” Brian whispered helplessly and looked up to Adam through the tears, “... you know. I m-mean, I think I knew he thought about it before, somehow, I guessed, but... I never thought I’d have to see it a-and, God help me, this is what I t-took him through, I made him... I forced him... My Roger, my Roger, just mine... it was him, you know, Adam,” Brian blindly reached for the whole bottle and just took a long sip, “he was meant to live, I wanted him to live... But I chose a-and he chose, then why, why!”

Paying no mind to Adam’s soft protests, Brian jumped up from the chair, hurried to the window and leaned out.

“Why!” he screamed, and the desperate shriek carried all over the marshlands. He would swear he heard a silent, gleeful giggle in return. “Bastards! You pathetic, pagan bastards! Why!” Slowly, he collapsed over the windowsill, desperate and exhausted. “Why...”

Slowly, Adam approached him and gently touched his back. 

“Brian...,” he mumbled, “... what happened? Roger? Gone? You mean... Please, I just... is there anything I can do to help?”

Brian chuckled darkly, looking into the night. “You? Help? Boy, you should first help yourself. There’s nothing...”

“No, no,” Adam touched Brian’s face and forced him to look into his bright blue eyes, “you and Roger basically saved my life back then. This house... the year I spent here I felt more at home than anywhere else in the world. So, if there’s anything I can do in this...,” he looked over Brian’s appearance, feeling a bit unsure, “... situation..., I’ll do it gladly.”

Brian sighed, but leaned a bit more into the touch, searching for warmth and comfort. 

“I don’t know...,” he admitted quietly, “if he... wanted this for me or it’s just another... pitiful joke the fate pulled on us. Or maybe... destiny? Was this meant to be, meant for me all along?”

Adam just vaguely nodded and led Brian back to the chair. “You’ll know, in time. And now, I mean, I hate to push you, but this is quite a confusing-”

“The third shelf from the left,” Brian interrupted him quietly with a vague gesture, “there are some photo albums. Have a look and... you see.”

“I’d rather you tell me.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, I’ve been praised for a decent attention span,” Adam replied with determination. “Look, if you really can’t or don’t want to-”

Brian shook his head with a sigh. “I think,” he mumbled, “you should know. After all, you’re already far too deep in this mess with us.”

“Me?” Adam looked surprised. “What does it have to do with me?”

“The same it had with me once. And before me, there was John Deacon... and Freddie Mercury. You see... Roger once told me that these marshlands had taken many lives, and the boundaries between life from death became unclear. The dead live while the living pay the price. It seems once they touch a soul... they never let go, no matter how we try to defy them.”

Adam frowned. “What kind of place is this?”

Brian slowly closed his eyes in exhaustion. “Hell, Adam,” he said flatly, “welcome to hell.”

_*Present Day*_

Norwich had always been extremely attractive when it came to tourism. There were the obvious dominants, the cathedral, Tombland Alley, castle and museum, but also the city itself had kept something that made one feel as if he walked through history. For example, who would’ve thought, that the Maid’s Head hotel had been eight hundred years old, at least. 

Anyway, that’s what Gwilym read in a tourist brochure handed to him by the receptionist.

“Since the 12th century?” he repeated, glancing around the historical lounge. Only the obvious electric installation, modern glass door, omnipresent Halloween decorations, and Taylor Swift’s “I Don’t Wanna Live Forever” disturbed the illusion. 

The woman at the desk smiled, obviously trained in chatting the visitors into making a reservation. “Oh, of course, sir. Atmosphere of the past with all the pleasures modern life can offer. As a historian, Nowhere in Norwich you find a more suitable lodging.”

“Religious studies, actually,” Gwilym corrected her, “and English literature. I’m writing a thesis on pagan magical symbology and its heritage in modern ways of thinking. The superstitions, myths...”

“... old-wife tales and scary stories,” the receptionist finished with a smile. “Our city archive has a lot to offer for a research like that. Ghosts, pixies and fairies... these are our speciality. I’m sure Norwich can satisfy all your academic needs, as well as some others,” she winked, earning a blush in return, “so... Mr. Lee – how many nights would it be?” 

Gwilym gave her an apologetic smile, returning the brochure. “No, forgive me,” he said quietly, “I actually need just a city map, this is only a little detour for me. I’m off to Blakeney in three hours.”

The receptionist seemed disappointed but remained professional. Maybe because even though being in contact with people every day, she rarely had an option to chat with a man that seemed both intelligent, polite, and, let’s not kid ourselves, very handsome.

“Of course, Blakeney,” she smiled, “the famous Blakeney tunnels. According to the legend, they’re a home to numerous creatures called hytersprites. They look like spiders and eat badly-behaved children thrown in by fairies.”

Gwilym nodded, he’d heard that before. “I’m actually just driving through, I’ve been invited to Rhye Hall. Its owner is known to have the largest collection of books dedicated to pagan mysticism in Britain, and agreed to be my host during the research,” he smiled, “I’m lucky. Maybe you’re heard about him?”

“Rhye Hall...,” she pursed her lips in thought, “... Rhye Hall... oh, sure, I think it has been on TV recently, but nothing about pagans.”

“It’s a wild-life sanctuary as well,” Gwilym offered. “The man’s an enthusiastic activist. Also a writer, you should really read his blog. He talks a lot about that thing with badgers, which is now going on. And if you go on YouTube, you can listen to his songs, they’re really something.”

“An enthusiast indeed,” the woman agreed, clearly not interested in either wildlife or blogging, “you sound very eager to meet the man.”

Gwilym blushed deep crimson, when he remembered all the lonely nights spent listening to that sweet voice and sad, longing guitar tunes. Somehow, it talked to him, deep inside. 

“I-I mean,” Gwilym stuttered, “he sounds like an interesting person.”

“Undoubtedly. So... you said you wanted a city map?”

“Wha- oh, yes, please.”

“It’ll be 8 pounds, Mr. Lee, enjoy your stay.” 

Later that day, Gwilym’s car passed the exit sign from Blackeney, heading north on a lonely country road among the trees. An old guidepost told him that Rhye Hall is merely some two miles ahead.

Gwilym tapped his fingers on the stirring wheel, trying to breathe through his nervousness. Naturally, there wasn’t any reason to be nervous, he had been invited. But still... there was something about meeting the man...

A flock of ravens flew over the grey sky, and Gwilym couldn’t but supress a shiver when he drove through an open bronze gate, over the estate’s border. 

Just behind it, he noticed a simple, old cross adorned by a bunch of fresh flowers. 

The forest all around, along with smell coming from the marshlands and the sea felt strange and unfriendly. Weird place, Gwil thought, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a spark of excitement at the atmosphere. Abandoned, forgotten land... hidden world...

He swallowed, trying to ignore the unease while he drove further down the narrow road with no turns. Suddenly, the way curved and behind the last patch of trees, a mansion popped up.

So... this is the Rhye Hall. Large baroque country house along with a dark, autumn scenery of wet leaves and cold wind seemed a bit sombre and glum, creating an impression of danger, secrets and mystery. With his degree from English literature, Gwilym couldn’t but recall a verse from Macbeth, act four, scene one. Witches. 

_By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes... Open locks, whoever knocks!_

He snickered. This house and the marshland around, they could indeed host numerous fairy tale creatures. The ones from the very old tales, the mean, malicious kind, not the toothless sugar-coated Disney versions of them.

The main door already opened when Gwilym parked and got out of the car. His eyes widened at the sight of the man heading towards him. 

Firstly, he was younger than Gwilym had assumed. Much younger. Twenty-four? Five? Nevertheless, with the mansion in the background he looked truly impressive, tall and lithe with long dark curls falling over his shoulders. His face was elegant and aristocratic, and no matter the age, the hazel eyes could be antient, so deep they were. Deep, yet darkly shining with intelligence, wisdom, and... sadness? But then the man changed his expression just slightly, putting on a polite smile, and the feeling disappeared. Gwilym couldn’t but snicker when he glanced over his host’s clothes. Undoubtedly well-tailored and of quality fabrics, however the patterns and cuts seemed a bit... extraordinary. Man of his own style for sure. And, ehm... were those clogs?

“Mr. Lee?” the strange man walked all the way to him. “I’m Brian May, we spoke on the phone.”

Gwilym woke up from the surprised stupor and gladly shook the hand offered. “I’m... happy to finally meet you, sir. And thank you so much for giving me this opportunity.”

“Oh, please, don’t mention it,” Brian assured him, “what is it for, having a library at your disposal, and no one to read it? I’ll be happy to compare my findings with yours, if you indulge me.”

“I’ll be delighted,” Gwilym smiled, hoping he didn’t look overly eager while his heart danced a happy waltz. He loved conversations about his interests as much as anyone. Besides, his host appeared to be one of the most enculturated men he’d ever met. And the most handsome, to be completely honest.

“So, you read the books?”

“Naturally,” Brian nodded flatly. “Though the only thing I found out about pagan gods is that they’re mostly a bunch of evil bitches. Please, follow me. No need to stay outside, the wind is freezing. Later I’ll have to ask you to go and park further from the house though.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll-”

“No need for it now,” Brian rushed to stop him and for some reason, he looked nervous, “just... the creatures of the night sometimes like to play.”

Gwilym raised an eyebrow. “Creatures of the night? You mean bats and squirrels and...”

“Eh, yes, of course, that. Please, do come in.” Brian held the entrance door opened so Gwilym could enter, and then banged them shut. “I hope you’ll find yourself comfortable here,” he smiled, and his sweet voice echoed through the hallway, “here, the library is on your left,” he pointed to one of the doors. “It used to be only one room, but during the first half of twentieth century it had been massively reconstructed to accommodate new volumes. Walls between the original library, the main dining hall and green salon had been torn down, creating one, large space. A true delight for a scholar, though - I’ll rather tell you now in case I’d forget – if you plan on studying during the night, please, always leave all the lights switched on. Never go there in the dark, and if you ever hear a piano, ignore it.”

Strange man, Gwilym thought, a bit eccentric, but who was he to judge. 

“I understand, Mr. May,” he nodded. “Are there any more rules? I... I’ll try to be as little bother as possible-”

“Oh, please, call me Brian. And do bother me with anything you might need. We live quite isolated lives; new company is always welcome.”

“We?” Gwilym repeated. “Who’s here with you? Your wife?” He wasn’t sure why, but his mood sank a little at the thought.

Brian chuckled. “Oh, no. Just my grandfather, Benjamin,” the smile somewhat disappeared from his face, “we can visit him later, though... I don’t think it’d be a very fruitful discussion, he’s very.... hm, old. I’m trying to take care of him the best I can, but you can’t really hire anyone to be here day and night these days. It’s hard.”

Gwilym nodded in understanding and wanted to utter something about being sorry to hear that, when suddenly something brushed around his ankles, making him yelp in surprise.  
Large badger ran right past him, heading down the corridor, followed by a family of three. 

Brian laughed. “Oh, yes... Regina and her little ones. I forgot to warn you. Be careful about your shoelaces, they love to chew on them, cheeky rascals.”

“Was that,” Gwilym gasped, “a badger? I mean, I knew you had a wildlife reserve on the estate, but I always imagined it... outside.”

“It takes around ten acres of the forest,” Brian nodded, leading Gwilym down the hallway, “but those too weak or injured I take in, so they can be nicely warm and under supervision. Badgers, foxes, weasels... I like spending time with them, they... they’re far less confusing than people.” It sounded sad and pensive, especially with the way he almost inaudibly sighed. Just for a second, Gwilym thought Brian hunched, as if crushed by the weight of the world, but the impression disappeared immediately when the man spoke again. “Currently I’m having eight of them inside. They get along with the cats and Frankie Junior quite well.”

“Who’s Frankie Junior?”

“My grandfather’s dog,” Brian explained. “He used to have one and already forgot that it died almost fifteen years ago, so... I got him a puppy, as similar as possible. Hence Junior. Just one of the little white lies, no need to upset him with some explanations and reminders. Thank God you’re here, Gwilym, I mean,” he bit his lip, “don’t get me wrong, but... ehm... I always welcome a new company, after so long. Now... would you like some tea after the journey?”

Gwilym stuttered in surprise. “If it’s not too-“

“You do,” Brian concluded, and his eyes smiled warmly. “Would you mind following me to the kitchen? It’s much cosier, and one of two places in this house I’m not letting the animals in. It’s way too dangerous, stove and stuff.” He gestured towards small door at the end of the entrance hall.

“One of two places? What’s the second?” Gwil low-key prayed it would be the guest room, but he didn’t dare to get his hopes too high.

“My little studio,” Brian answered, “in the basement. With all the electricity and instruments...”

“Of course, you play!” Gwilym exclaimed and blushed when Brian’s eyes met him. “I... I listened to everything you wrote,” he admitted quietly. “I’m a fan. I mean... Who Wants To Live Forever or Too Much Love Will Kill You... incredible. So... magical.”

He was fully aware how terribly he rambled and looked down, embarrassed, so he missed the blank expression which settled on his host’s face. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Brian mumbled softly. “And eh... the tea, yes. Please, come.”

The first impression of the kitchen wasn’t at all what Gwilym expected. It should’ve been something old-fashioned, almost antique. Instead, he met a modern place full of sharp lines and chromium-plated surfaces equipped with all the necessities of twenty-first century life. Nevertheless, thanks to wooden table and chairs, cheerful rug and curtains, Brian was right, the place looked indeed cosy.

“So...,” Brian opened a cupboard, looking inside, “... I can offer you peppermint, oolong, white tea, hibiscus, some ordinary Earl Grey... oh, I know,” he picked one of the boxes, “Gorreana- Broken Leaf Black Tea. It grows on the oldest plantation in Europe. I had to order it specially, and even then, I waited for several months. But I guess...,” he sighed, “I should be grateful it even is possible. It used to be difficult, to get what I wanted, but now, God bless the internet, right?” He smiled.

“Ehm... sure.” 

Brian May really seemed to be a bit of a weirdo.

“I mean, it’s so much fun,” Brian continued while filling the kettle, “ordering things, reading all the newest articles, and all the networks, friends, and just yesterday I passed the level 65 in Candy Crush!”

Gwilym gave him a hesitant smile. “Eh... marvellous.”

“It really is,” Brian managed to miss the sarcasm entirely, and continued with a child-like enthusiasm. “Just yesterday I watched a real-life stream conference from Atlanta, about possibilities of sending humans to Mars, can you believe that? They estimated some fifty years of preparations but in my opinion-”

The water in the kettle slowly started to boil, and Brian talked and talked while busy searching for cups. He couldn’t see Gwilym paid him almost no mind. Not that he didn’t want to, but his attention had been taken by an old framed photograph standing on the windowsill. It depicted a very handsome young man, standing somewhere outside, his blond hair flying in the wind. The quality was poor, and the black-and-white picture already started to take shades of sepia, but the man’s wide eyes felt strangely alive and his smile was contagious, even after so many years. Gwilym realized he’d seen this man before, a different photograph of him had been hanging in the hallway.

“ – around the year of 2090,” Brian finished and turned back to face his guest. “God, I can’t wait to see that!”

With some difficulty, Gwilym recalled what the conversation was about. “Oh, for sure,” he smiled, “if we live long enough.”

“Sure...,” Brian nodded absentmindedly and gave him a strange glance. “That’s necessary.” Somewhat distracted, he poured the water in two cups and handed him one. “Please, if you need anything in it, sugar, milk-“

“Ehm, tea?” Gwilym suggested sheepishly, looking at the clear water in his cup.

Brian blinked before he realized that mistake and hurriedly took the cup back, throwing in two teabags at once so vigorously the burning water squirted out onto his hand. 

“Ouch!”

The cup slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, crushing in hundreds little shards. “Dammit!” He squatted and started picking up the pieces. “Sorry, so sorry, it just happens when I... I think...”

Gwilym frowned in worry. “Do you need help?”

“Oh, no, I got this. Just, would you be so kind and yeet me that dustpan from the corner?” 

Unfortunately, Brian looked up just to see Gwilym trying to supress a chuckle.

“What?”

“Yeet you the dustpan?” Gwil’s shoulders were shaking in a fit of giggles. “I’m so so sorry, but-”

“It is a word,” Brian said a bit unsurely. “Is... is it wrong? People on Instagram use it.”

“You don’t get out much, do you?” Gwilym sighed fondly and headed for the dustpan. Somehow, he started to like this outlandish Leonardo. 

“Not really, no,” Brian admitted. “I... I enjoy my privacy.”

With Gwilym taking care of the situation, soon the shards were cleaned, and tea made. Brian was sitting on his chair, sheepishly staring into his cup.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“That’s quite alright,” Gwil assured him, “we all have a bad day from time to time.”

“Sometimes more than a day,” Brian’s fingers ran distractedly around the cup, “though... I’m really glad you’re here. I... I need... someone here. People. It’s hard to be in touch, harder and harder.”

So... some kind of social anxiety, Gwilym concluded, and gave the poor man an encouraging smile. 

“I’m glad too,” he assured him. “You can’t believe how much this invitation means for me. I was wondering...”

Brian looked up. “Yes?”

For a moment, Gwilym thought about how to phrase it before he spoke. “Well, you’re an activist, a musician, an astrophysicist... and yet you have a collection on pagan mythology. Why is that?”

He didn’t get an answer straight away. Brian’s eyes darted somewhere over Gwil’s shoulder to the windowsill and back. The spark disappeared, and now the hazel looked dark, antient and empty.

“Because... I’m searching,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“An answer. I need... need to know why.”

There was an obvious question after such a vague reply, but Gwilym held his tongue. It was clear Brian wouldn’t tell him anyway.

“Hmm... I’ll be happy to help,” he offered. 

“I’m sure you’ll be of help somehow,” Brian nodded with a small, crooked smile on his face. “Welcome to the Rhye Hall, Gwilym.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for getting to the end of this fic! Please, comments mean the world, let me know your thoughts and opinions, they're always deeply appreciated!


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